What curious candles they were!  They did not grow horizontally, as she had imagined they must, but upright and candle-like.  Above their sticks, which were of brass, silver and decorated porcelain, was a flame, ruddy of tip, sharply pointed, but fat and yellow at the base, where the soft white wax fed the fire; at the other end of the sticks, as like the top light as if it were a perfect reflection, was a second flame.  These were candles that burned at both ends.

And this was the region she had traveled so far to find!  Her heart beat so wildly that it stirred the plaid of the little gingham dress.

“Say!  I hear a quacking!” announced Puffy, staring up into the sky.

Gwendolyn heard it, too.  It seemed to come from across the Field of Double-Ended Candles.  She peered that way, to where a heavy fringe of trees walled the farther side greenily.

She saw him first!—­while the others (excepting the Bird) were still staring skyward.  At the start, what she discerned was only a faint outline on the tree-wall—­the outline of a man, broad-shouldered, tall, but a trifle stooped.  It was faint for the reason that it blended with the trees.  For the man was garbed in green.

As he advanced into the field, the chorus of quacks grew louder.  And presently Gwendolyn caught certain familiar expressions—­“Oh, don’t bozzer me!” “Sit up straight, Miss!  Sit up straight!” (this a rather deep quack).  “My dear child, you have no sense of time!” And, “What on earth ever put such a question into your head!” She concluded that the expressions were issuing from the large bell-shaped horn which was pointed her way over one shoulder of the man in green.  The talking-machine to which the horn was attached—­a handsome mahogany affair—­he carried on his back.  It was not unlike a hand-organ.  Which made Gwendolyn wonder if he was not the Man-Who-Makes-Faces’ brother.

She glanced back inquiringly at the little old gentleman.  Either the stranger was a relation—­and not a popular one—­or else the quacking expressions annoyed.  For the Man-Who-Makes-Faces was scowling.  And, “Cavil, criticism, correction!” he scolded, half to himself.

He in green now began to move about and gather silk-shaded candles, bending this way and that to pluck them, and paying not the slightest attention to the group of watchers in plain view.  But not one of these was indifferent to his presence.  And all were acting in a most incomprehensible manner.  With one accord, Doctor and Piper, Bear and Policeman, Face-maker and Bird, were rubbing hard at the palm of one hand.  There being no trees close by, the men used the sole of a shoe, while Puffy raked away at one paw with the claws of the others, and the Bird pecked a foot with his beak.

And yet Gwendolyn could not believe that it was really he.

The Policeman drew near.  “You’ve heard of Hobson’s choice?” he inquired in a low voice.  “Perhaps this is Hobson, or Sam Hill, or Punch, or Great Scott.”