And now an extraordinary thing happened:  A black glittering body shot rustling through the grass to the side of the Den.  Then up went a scaly head, and forth darted a flaming tongue—­driving the Bear back under the cover!

At which the Bear rebelled.  For his growls turned into a muffled protest—­“Now, you stop, Miss Royle!  I won’t be treated like this!  I won’t!”

Then Gwendolyn understood Jane’s hum!  And why the governess had obeyed it so swiftly.  The light-colored cage with the loose cover was nothing else than the old linen-hamper!  As for the Bear—!

Hair flying, cheeks crimson, eyes shining with quick tears of joy, she darted past Jane, leaped the glittering snake-folds before the hamper, and swung the cover up on its hinges.

“Puffy!” she cried.  “Oh, Puffy!”

It was indeed Puffy, with his plushy brown head, his bright, shoe-button eyes, his red-tipped, sharply pointed nose, his adorably tiny ears, and deep-cut, tightly shut, determined mouth.  It was Puffy, as dear as ever!  As old and as squashy!

He stood up in the hamper to look at her, leaning his front paws—­in rather a dignified manner—­on the broken edge of the basketry.  He was breathing hard from his contest, but smiling nevertheless.

“Ah!” said he, affably.  “The Poor Little Rich Girl, I see!”

Gwendolyn’s first impulse was to take him up in her arms.  But his proud air, combined with the fact that he had grown tremendously, caused her to check the impulse.

“How do you do?” she inquired politely.

“I’m pretty shabby, thank you.”

“Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice again!” she exclaimed.  “When you left, I didn’t have a chance to tell you good-by.”

It was then that she noticed a white something fluttering at his breast, just under his left fore-leg.  “Excuse me,” she said apologetically, “but aren’t you losing your pocket handkerchief?”

Sadly he shook his head.  “It’s my stuffing,” he explained.  And gently withdrawing his paw from her eager grasp, laid it upon his breast.  “You see, the Big Rock—­”

The little old gentleman was beside him, examining the wound; muttering to himself.

“Can you mend him?” asked Gwendolyn.  “Oh, Puffy!”

The little old gentleman began to empty his pockets of the articles with which he had provided himself—­the ear, the handful of hair, the plump cheek.  “Ah!  Ah!” he breathed as he examined each one; and to and fro wagged the grizzled beard.  “I’m afraid—!  I must have help.  This is a case that will require a specialist.”

The tone was so solemn that it frightened her.  “Oh, do you mean we need a Doctor?”

Puffy was trembling weakly.  “I lost some cotton-batting once before,” he half-whispered to Gwendolyn.  “It was when you were teething.  Oh, I know it was unintentional!  You were so little.  But—­I can’t spare any more.”