It was the water-play that brought the realization of all her new good-fortune—­the being out of doors and plainly clad; free from the espionage of a governess; away from the tyranny of a motor-car; barefoot; and—­chief blessing of all!—­nurseless.

Forgetting the little old gentleman, in a sudden excess of glee she seized a stick and bestrode it; seized another and belabored the quarters of a stout dappled pony; pranced, reared, kicked up her wet feet, shied wildly—­

Then, both sticks cast aside, she began to dance; at first with deliberation, holding out the gingham dress at either side, and mincing through the steps taught by Monsieur Tellegen.  But gradually she forsook rhythm and measure; capering ceased; the dance became fast and furious.  Hallooing, she raced hither and thither among the trees, tossing her arms, darting down at the flowers and flinging them high, swishing her yellow hair from side to side, leaping exultantly toward the lights, pivoting—­

Suddenly she found that she was dancing to music!—­not the laboriously strummed notes of a piano, such as were beaten out by the firm-striding Miss Brown; not the clamorous, deafening, tuneless efforts of an orchestra.  This was real music—­inviting, inspiring, heavenly!

It was a hand-organ!

She halted, spell-bound.  He was playing, turning the crank with a swift, steady motion, his ragged hat tipped to one side.

Now she understood the box hanging from its strap.  She danced up to him, and held out a hand.  “Why, you’re the hand-organ man!” she panted breathlessly.  “And you got here as quick as I did!”

He stopped playing, “I’m the hand-organ man when I’m in town,” he corrected.  “Here, in the Land of the Lights, I’m the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.”

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces!  She looked at him with new interest.  “Why, of course you are,” she acknowledged.  “Sometimes you make ’em in town.”

“Sometimes in town I make an ugly one,” he retorted.  Whereupon he shouldered the hand-organ, grasped the curved knife, and started away.  As he walked, he called aloud to every side, like a huckster.

“Here’s where you get your ears sharpened!” he sang. “Ears sharpened! Eyes sharpened!  Edges taken off of tongues!”

She trotted beside him, head up, gray eyes wide, lips parted.  He was ascending a gentle rise toward a low hill not far distant.  As she drew away from the stream and the glade, she heard, from somewhere far behind, a shrill voice.  It called a name—­a name strangely familiar.  She paid no heed.

At the summit of the little hill, under some trees, he paused, and waved the kidnaper knife in circles. “Ears to sharpen!” he shrilled again. “Eyes to sharpen!  Edges taken off of tongues!”

She smiled up at him engagingly, noting how his gray hair hung over the back of his collar.  She felt no fear of him whatever.  “I think you’re nice, Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Faces,” she announced presently.  “I’m so glad I can look straight at you.  I didn’t know you, ’cause your voice is different, and ’cause I’d never seen you before ’cept when I was looking down at you.”