Startled in the act of feeding Curly Q., Rosalind looked toward the door, and saw there a lady in a crisp, light muslin.  More than this she did not at once take in, for behind her in the semi-darkness of the shop was Martin’s face.  The conviction that he was looking for her, and that grandmamma would be vexed, overshadowed everything else.  She rose, while the magician greeted the lady as Miss Betty, and offered her a cup of tea.

“I’se been searchin’ high and low for you, Miss Rosalind,” Martin exclaimed, coming forward.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Martin; I forgot,” said Rosalind.

Miss Betty, who had declined the tea, now held out her hand.  “This is Rosalind Whittredge, of course; I am your Cousin Betty.”

“I didn’t know I had any cousins,” said Rosalind.

“You will find a few if you stay long enough,” replied Miss Betty.  “How do you come to be eating supper with Morgan, I’d like to know?  I was sitting on my porch when you went in, so when Martin came along I was able to help him.”

“I like Morgan.  I wanted to see him.  Father told me about him.”  Rosalind felt she couldn’t explain exactly.

“I used to know your father very well indeed,” said Miss Betty, as they walked together to the street, after Rosalind had told the magician good-by.  “As you seem to like going out to tea, I hope you will come and take supper with me sometime,” she added, with a twinkle in her eye.

When she reached home Miss Herbert stood at the gate, and in the door was Mrs. Whittredge.  Rosalind’s face was full of brightness as she ran up the path.

“Grandmamma, I meant only to stay a minute, and then I forgot.”

“I have been worried about you, Rosalind,” Mrs. Whittredge said gravely.  “Why did you not come to me and tell me where you wished to go?  Where have you been?”

“To see the magician—­Morgan, I mean.  I wanted so much to see him I did not think of anything else.”

“Why did you wish to see him?” continued her grandmother.

The glow was fading from Rosalind’s face.  “Because—­” she hesitated, “because—­”

“Well?”

“Because I was lonely, grandmamma, and I was afraid I was going to cry.  I promised father I would be brave, and—­well—­Morgan knows about the Forest, and is very good to cheer you up.  He made tea in the dearest little teapot, and it was so amusing, I forgot.  I am sorry.”

“Do you mean you took supper with Morgan?  Well, Rosalind, you are amazing!” Aunt Genevieve spoke from the hall.

“Never mind, Genevieve,” said her mother.  “I am sorry you were lonely, Rosalind, but I do not understand why you should go to Morgan.  And what do you mean by the ’forest’?”

Rosalind’s face was grave again.  “I don’t know, grandmamma,” she faltered, and indeed she could not have told if her life had depended on it.

“I think you were very easy on her, mamma.  It was certainly naughty of her to run away,” Genevieve remarked, after Rosalind, worn out by the conflicting experiences of the day, had gone to bed.