some fresh dates, strung on
a long string, were found dangling on the inner side of the fence--the
knothole having provided the point of entrance for each date; once a
small bunch of wild flowers graced it on the yard side. Again, for three
months, the hole served for a circulating library. A whole story found
lodgement there, a chapter at a time, torn from a paper-covered novel.
Flibbertigibbet carried them around with her pinned inside of her blue
denim apron, and read them to Freckles whenever she was sure of not
being caught. Luigi was their one boy on earth.

_The Marchioness of Isola Bella_, that was the name of the story; and if
Flibbertigibbet and Freckles on their narrow cots in the bare upper
dormitory of the Orphan Asylum on ----nd Street, did not dream of
sapphire lakes and snow-crowned mountains, of marble palaces and
turtledoves, of lovely ladies and lordly men, of serenades and guitars
and ropes of pearl, it was not the fault either of Luigi Poggi or the
_Marchioness of Isola Bella_. But at times the story-book marchioness
seemed very far away, and it was a happy thought of Flibbertigibbet's to
name the little lady in the great house after her; for, once, watching
at twilight from the cold window seat in the dormitory, the two orphan
children saw her ladyship dressed for a party, the maid having forgotten
to lower the shades.

Freckles and Flibbertigibbet dared scarcely breathe; it was so much
better than the _Marchioness of Isola Bella_, for this one was real and
alive--oh, yes, very much alive! She danced about the room, running from
the maid when she tried to catch her, and when the door opened and a
tall man came in with arms opened wide, the real Marchioness did just
what the story-book marchioness did on the last page to her lover: gave
one leap into the outstretched arms of the father-lover.

While the two children opposite were looking with all their eyes at this
unexpected _denouement_, the maid drew the shades, and Freckles and
Flibbertigibbet were left to stare at each other in the dark and cold.
Flibbertigibbet nodded and whispered:

"That takes the cake. The _Marchioness of Isola Bella_ ain't in it!"

Freckles squeezed her hand. Thereafter, although the girls appreciated
the various favors of the knothole, their entire and passionate
allegiance was given to the real Marchioness across the way.

IV

One day, it was just after Thanksgiving, the Marchioness discovered her
opposite nei