“With the hand-organ man, too, fath-er?  Oh, you like him, don’t you?  And you won’t send him away!”

“Father won’t.”

He laid her back among the pillows then.  And she turned her face to her mother.

“Can’t you sleep, darling?—­And don’t dream!”

“Well, I’m pretty tired.”

“We know what a hard long night it was.”

“Oh, I’m so glad we’re going back to Johnnie Blake’s, moth-er.  ’Cause, oh, I’m tired of pretending!”

“Of pretending,” said her father.  “Ah, yes.”

Her mother nodded at him.  “I’m tired of pretending, too,” she said in a low voice.

Gwendolyn looked pleased.  “I didn’t know you ever pretended,” she said.  “Well, of course, you know that real things are so much nicer—­”

“Ah, yes, my little girl!” It was her father.  His voice trembled.

“Real grass,”—­she smiled up at him—­“and real trees, and real people.”  After that, for a while, she gave herself over to thinking.  How wonderful that one single night could bring about the changes for which she had so longed!—­the living in the country; the eating at the grown-up table, and having no governess.

One full busy night had done all that!  And yet—­

She glanced down at herself.  Under her pink chin was the lace and ribbon of a night-dress.  She could not remember being put to bed—­could not even recall coming up in the bronze cage.  And was the plaid gingham with the patch-pocket now hanging in the wardrobe?  Brows knit, she slipped one small foot sidewise until it was close to the edge of the bed-covers, then of a sudden thrust it out from beneath them.  The foot was as white as if it had only just been bathed!  Not a sign did it show of having waded any stream, pattered through mud, or trudged a forest road!

Presently, “Moth-er,”—­sleepily.

“Yes, darling?”

“Who are Law and Order?”

A moment’s silence.  Then, “Well—­er—­”

“Isn’t it a fath-er-and-moth-er question?”

“Why, yes, my baby.  But I—­”

“Father will tell you, dear.”  He was seated beside her once more.  “You see it’s this way:” 

“Can you tell it like a story, fath-er?”

“Yes.”

“A once-upon-a-time story?”

“I’ll try.  But first you must understand that law and order are not two people.  Oh, no.  And they aren’t anything a little girl could see—­as she can see the mirror, for instance, or a chair—­”

Gwendolyn looked at the mirror and the chair—­thence around the room.  These were the same things that had been there all the time.  Now how different each appeared!  There was the bed, for instance.  She had never liked the bed, beautiful though it was.  Yet to-day, even with the sun shining on the great panes of the wide front window, it seemed good to be lying in it.  And the nursery, once a hated place—­a very prison!—­the nursery had never looked lovelier!