The others were near.  She could hear the tinkle-tankle of the Piper’s pipes, the scuff of Puffy’s paws, the labored breathing of the little old gentleman as he trudged, the heavy tramp, tramp of the Policeman.  She made her bare feet travel as fast as she could, and kept her look steadily ahead on the dim stars.

And saw, moving from one to another of them, in quick darts—­now up, now down—­a small Something.  She did not instantly guess what it was—­flitting across that half-darkened sky.  Until she heard the wild beating of tiny pinions!

“Why, it’s a bird!” she exclaimed.

“A bird?” repeated the Policeman, all eagerness.

“Must be the Bird!” declared the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, triumphantly.

It was.  Even in the poor light her eager eyes made out the bumps on that small feathered head.  And saw that on the down-drooping tail, nicely balanced, and gleaming whitely, was a lump.

Remembering what she had heard about that bit of salt, she ran forward.  At her approach, his wings half-lifted.  And as she reached out to him, pointing a small finger, he sprang sidewise, alighting upon it.

“Oh, I’m glad you’ve come!” he panted.

He was no larger than a canary; and seemed to be brown—­a sparrow-brown.  Prejudiced against him she had been.  He had tattled about her—­worse, about her father.  Yet seeing him now, so tiny and ruffled and frightened, she liked him.

She brought him to a level with her eyes.  “What’s the matter?” she asked soothingly.

“I’m afraid.”  He thrust out his head, pointing. “Look.”

She looked.  Ahead the tops of the grass blades were swaying this way and that in a winding path—­as if from the passage of some crawling thing!

“She tried to get me out of the way!”

“Oh, tell me where is my fath-er!”

“Why, of course.  They say he’s—­”

He did not finish; or if he did she heard no end to the sentence.  Of a sudden her face had grown almost painfully hot—­as a great yellow light flamed against it, a light that shimmered up dazzlingly from the surface of a broad treeless field.  This field was like none that she had ever imagined.  For its acres were neatly sodded with mirrors.

The little company was on the beveled edge of the field.  To halt them, and conspicuously displayed, was a sign.  It read—­

    Keep off The Glass.

“‘Keep off the glass,’” read Gwendolyn.  “And I don’t wonder.  ’Cause we’d crack it.”

“We don’t crack it, we cross it,” reminded the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  And stepped boldly upon the gleaming plate.

“My!  My!” exclaimed the Piper.  “Ain’t there a fine crop this year!”

A fine crop?  Gwendolyn glanced down.  And saw for the first time that the mirrored acres were studded, flower-like, with countless silk-shaded candles!