They met her as she came on, blocking her way.  And, “Madam!” They shouted.  “Trade your bonnet for the Piper’s poke!”

Gwendolyn held her breath.

Her mother halted.  Now for the first time she lifted her eyes and looked about—­as if dazed and miserable.  There was a flush on each smooth cheek.  She was panting so that her lips quivered.

The Piper rose and hurried forward.  And seeing him, half-timidly she reached out a hand—­a slender, white hand.  Quickly he relinquished the poke, but when she took it, made a cup of his two hands under it, as if he feared she might let it fall.  The poke was heavier than the bonnet.  She held it low, but looked at it intently, smiling a little.

Presently, without even a parting glance, she held the bonnet out to him.  “Take it away,” she commanded.  “It isn’t becoming.”

He received it; and promptly made off along the road, the bonnet held up before his face.  “When it comes to chargin’,” he called back, with an independent jerk of the head, “I’m the only chap that can keep ahead of a chauffeur.”  And he laughed uproariously.

Gwendolyn’s mother now began to admire the poke, turning it around, at the same time tilting her head to one side,—­this very like the Bird!  She fingered the lace, and picked at the ribbon.  Then, having viewed it from every angle, she opened it—­as if to put it on.

There was a bounce and a piercing squeal.  Then over the rim of the poke, with a thump as it hit the roadway, shot a small black-and-white pig.

She dropped the poke and sprang back, frightened.  And as the porker cut away among the trees, she wheeled, caught sight of Gwendolyn, and suddenly opened her arms.

With a cry, Gwendolyn flung herself forward.  No need now to fear harming an elegant dress, or roughing carefully arranged hair.  “Moth-er!” She clasped her mother’s neck, pressing a wet cheek against a cheek of satin.

“Oh, my baby!  My baby!—­Look at mother!”

“I am looking at you,” answered Gwendolyn, half sobbing and half laughing.  “I’ve looked at you for a long time.  ’Cause I love you so I love you!”

The next moment the Man-Who-Makes-Faces dashed suddenly aside—­to a nearby flower-bordered square of packed ground over which, blazing with lights, hung one huge tree.  Under the tree was a high, broad bill-board, a squat stool, and two short-legged tables.  The little old gentleman began to bang his furniture about excitedly.

“The tables are turned!” he shouted.  “The tables are turned!”

“Of course the tables are turned,” said Gwendolyn; “but what diff’rence’ll that make?”

“Difference?” he repeated, tearing back; “it means that from now on everything’s going to be exactly opposite to what it has been.”

“Oo!  Goody!” Then lifting a puzzled face.  “But why didn’t you turn the tables at first?  And why didn’t we stay here?  My moth-er was here all the time.  And—­”