She nodded bravely, and stood looking up at him.  He was old and unkempt.  Out at elbows, too.  And the bottoms of his baggy trousers hung in dusty shreds.  But his lined and bearded face was kind!  “I—­I haven’t been so very happy,” she said falteringly.

He shook his head.  “Not happy!  And no step-relations, either!”

“Well,—­er,” (she felt uncertain) “there are some step-houses just across the street.”

“Not the same thing,” he declared shortly.  “But, hm! hm!”—­as he coughed, he waved an arm cheerily.  “Things will improve.  Oh, yes.  All you’ve got to do is follow my advice.”

The gray eyes were wistful, and questioning.

“You’ve got a lot to do,” he went on.  “Oh, a great deal.  For instance”—­here he paused, running his fingers through his long hair—­“there’s Miss Royle, and Thomas, and Jane.”

She was silent for a long moment.  Miss Royle!  Thomas!  Jane!  In the joy of being out of doors, of having real dirt to scuff in, and high grass through which to brush; of having a plaid gingham with a pocket, and all the fizzing drink she wished; of being able to dabble and wade; and of having good, squashy soda-mud for pies—­in the joy at all this she had utterly forgotten them!

She looked up at the tapered trees, and down at the flower-bordered ground; then at the bill-board, and the loaded tables of that marvelous establishment.  There was still so much to see!  And, oh, how many scores of questions to ask!

He bent until his beard swept the sauce-box.  “You’ll just have to keep out of their clutches,” he declared.

Again she nodded, twisting and untwisting her fingers.  “I thought maybe they didn’t come here.”

“Come?” he grunted.  “Won’t they be hunting you? Well, keep out of their clutches, I say.  That’s absolutely necessary.  You’ll see why—­if you let ’em get you!  For—­how’ll you ever find your father?”

“Oh!” A sudden flush swept her face.  She looked at the ground.  She had forgotten Miss Royle and Thomas and Jane.  Worse!  Until that moment she had forgotten her father and mother!

“There’s that harness of his,” went on the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  He thought a moment, pursing his lips and twiddling his thumbs.  “We’ll have to consider how we can get rid of it.”

She glanced up.  “Where does he come?” she asked huskily; “my fath-er?”

“Um!  Yes, where?” He seemed uneasy; scratched his jaw; and rearranged a row of chins.  “Well, the fact is, he comes here to—­er—­buy candles that burn at both ends.”

“Of course.  Is it far?”

“Out in a new fashionable addition—­yes, addition, subtraction, multiplication.”

“You won’t mind showing me the way?” Now her face grew pale with earnestness.

He smiled sadly.  “I?  Your father thinks poorly of me.  He’s driven me off the block once or twice, you know.  Though”—­he looked away thoughtfully—­“when you come to think of it there isn’t such a lot of difference between your father and me.  He makes money:  I make faces.”