“But the road!” said her father meaningly.  “If ever one’s feet touch it—!”

She thought the road wonderful.  It was river-wide, and full of gentle undulations.  Where it was smoothest, it reflected the Barn and all the surrounding lights.  Yet now (like the shining tin of a roof-top) it resounded—­to a foot-fall!

“Some one’s coming!” announced the Piper.

Buzz-z-z-z!

It was a low, angry droning.

The next moment a figure came into sight at a corner of the Barn.  It was a slender, girlish figure, and it came hurrying forward along the circular way with never a glance to right or left.  Gwendolyn could see that whoever the traveler was, her dress was plain and scant.  Nor were there ornaments shining in her pretty hair, which was unbound.  She was shod in dainty, high-heeled slippers.  And now she walked as fast as she could; again she broke into a run; but taking no note of the ruts and rough places, continually stumbled.

“She’s watching what’s in her hand,” said the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  “Contemplation, speculation, perlustration.”  And he sighed.

“She’ll have a fine account to settle with me,”—­this the Piper again.  He whipped out his note-book.  “That’s what I call a merry dance.”

“See what she’s carrying,” advised the Bird.  In one hand the figure held a small dark something.

Gwendolyn looked.  “Why,—­why,” she began hesitatingly, “isn’t it a bonnet?”

A bonnet it was—­a plain, cheap-looking piece of millinery.

BUZZ-Z-Z-Z-Z!

The drone grew loud.  The figure caught the bonnet close to her face and held it there, turning it about anxiously.  Her eyes were eager.  Her lips wore a proud smile.

It was then that Gwendolyn recognized her.  And leaned forward, holding out her arms.  “Moth-er!” she plead. “Mother!”

Her mother did not hear.  Or, if she heard, did not so much as lift her eyes from the bonnet.  She tripped, regained her balance, and rushed past, hair wind-tossed, dress fluttering.  At either side of her, smoke curled away like silk veiling blown out by the swift pace.

“Oh, she’s burning!” cried Gwendolyn, in a panic of sudden distress.

The Doctor bent down.  “That’s money,” he explained; “—­burning her pockets.”

“She can’t see anything but the bee.  She can’t hear anything but the bee.”  It was Gwendolyn’s father, murmuring to himself.

“The bee!”

Now the Bird came bouncing to Gwendolyn’s side.  “You’ve read that bees are busy little things, haven’t you?” he asked.  “Well, this particular so-cial hon-ey-gath-er-ing in-sect—­”

“That’s the very one!” she declared excitedly.

“—­Is no exception.”

“We must get it away from her,” declared Gwendolyn.  “Oh, how tired her poor feet must be!” (As she said it, she was conscious of the burning ache of her own feet; and yet the tears that swam in her eyes were tears of sympathy, not of pain.) “Puffy!  Won’t you eat it?”