Down into the patch-pocket went her hand.  Out came the lip-case.  She thrust it into his furry grasp.  “Keep this,” she bade, “till I come back. I’ll go for the Doctor.”

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces leaned down.  “Fly!” he urged.

At that, Jane began to circle once more.  “Lovie,” she hummed, “don’t you go!  He’ll give you nasty medicine!”

“Hiss-s-s-s!” chimed in Miss Royle, her bandaged head rising and lowering in assent.  “He’ll cut out your appendix.”

One moment she hesitated, feeling the old fear drive the blood from her cheeks—­to her wildly beating heart.  Then she saw Puffy sway, half fainting.  And obeying the command of the little old gentleman, she grasped her gingham dress at either side—­held it out to its fullest width—­and with the wind pouching the little skirt, left the high grass, passed up through the lights of the nearby trees—­and rose into the higher air!

She gave a glance down as she went.  How excitedly Jane was circling!  How Miss Royle was lashing the ground!

But the faces of the other three were smiling encouragement.  And she flew for her very life.  Lightly she went—­as if there were nothing to her but her little gingham dress; as if that empty dress, having tugged at some swagging clothes-line until it was free, were now being wafted across the roofs, the tree-tops, the smooth windings of a road, to—­

A bake-shop, without doubt!  For her nostrils caught the good smell of fresh bread.  Suddenly the shop loomed ahead of her.  She alighted to have a look at it.

It was a round, high, stone building, with stone steps leading up to it from every side, and columns ranged in a circle at the top of the steps.  Seated on the bottom step, engrossed in some task, was a man.

As Gwendolyn looked at him she told herself that the Man-Who-Makes-Faces had given this customer such a nice face; the eyes, in particular, were kind.

He had a large pan of bread-dough beside him.  Out of it, now, he gouged a spoonful, which he began to roll between his palms.  And as he rolled the dough, it became rounder and rounder, until it was ball-like.  It turned browner and browner, too, precisely as if it were baking in his hands!  When he was finished with it, he piled it to one side, atop other brown pellets.

She advanced to speak.  “Please,” she began, pointing a small finger, “what is this place?”

He glanced up.  “This, little girl, is the Pillery.”

The Pillery!  Instantly she knew what he was making—­bread-pills.

And the bread-pills helped her to recognize him.  She dimpled cordially.  “I haven’t seen you since I had the colic,” she said, nodding, “but I know you.  You’re the Doctor!”

The Doctor was most cordial, shaking her hand gently; after which, naturally enough, he felt her pulse.

“But there’s nothing the matter with me,” she protested.  “It’s my dear Puffy. You remember.”