Puffy blinked as if embarrassed.  “Well, you see, a bee—­er—­makes honey,” he began lamely.

The figure had turned a corner of the Barn.  Now, on the farther side of the great structure, it was flitting past the openings.

Gwendolyn rested a hand on the wing of the Bird.  “Won’t you eat it?” she questioned.

The Bird wagged his bumpy head.  “It’s against all the laws of this Land,” he declared.

“But this is a society bee.”

“A bird isn’t even allowed to eat a bad bee.  But”—­chirping low—­“I’ll tell you what can be tried.”

“Yes?”

“Ask your mother to trade her bonnet for the Piper’s poke.”

Gwendolyn stared at him for a moment.  Then she understood.  “The poke’s prettier,” she declared.  “Oh, if she only would!  Piper!”

The Piper swaggered up.  “Some collecting on hand?” he asked.  Swinging as usual from a shoulder was the poke.

Gwendolyn thought she had never seen a prettier one.  Its ribbon bows were fresh and smart; its lace was snow-white and neatly frilled.

“Oh, I know she’ll make the trade!” she exclaimed happily.

The Piper considered the matter, pursing his lips around the pipe-stem in his mouth; standing on one foot.

Gwendolyn appealed to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  “Maybe moth-er’ll have to have her ears sharpened,” she suggested.

The little old gentleman shook his shaggy head. “Don’t let her hear that pig!” he warned darkly.

“She’ll come round in another moment!” It was the Doctor, voice very cheery.

At that, the Piper unslung the poke and advanced to the edge of the road.  “I’ve never wanted this crazy poke,” he asserted over a shoulder to Gwendolyn.  “Now, I’ll just get rid of it.  And I’ll present that bonnet with the bee” (here he laughed harshly) “to a woman that hasn’t footed a single one of my bills.  Ha! ha!”

Buzz-z-z-z!

Again that high, strident note.  Gwendolyn’s mother was circling into sight once more.  Fortunately, she was keeping close to the outer edge of the road.  The Piper faced in the direction she was speeding, and prepared to race beside her.

BUZZ-Z-Z-Z!

It was an exciting moment!  She was holding out the bonnet as before.  He thrust the poke between her face and it, carefully keeping the lace and the bows in front of her very eyes.

“Madam!” he shouted.  “Trade!”

“Moth-er!”

Her mother heard.  Her look fell upon the poke.  She slowed to a walk.

“Trade!” shouted the Piper again, dangling the poke temptingly.

She stopped short, gazing hard at the poke.  “Trade?” she repeated coldly. (Her voice sounded as if from a great distance.) “Trade?  Well, that depends upon what They say.”

Then she circled on—­at such a terrible rate that the Piper could not keep pace.  He ceased running and fell behind, breathing hard and complaining ill-temperedly.