Before she could draw another breath—­here was the turn! a sharp one.  And she, felt a keen wind in her eyes,—­blown in gusts, as if by the wings of giant butterflies.  The cloud that held the wind lay just ahead—­a pinky mass that stretched from sky to earth.

The Bird turned his dark eyes upon Gwendolyn from where he sat, high and safe, on the Doctor’s shoulder.  “I think her little journey’s almost done,” he said.  There was a rich canary note in his voice.

“Oo! goody!” she cried.

“You mean you have a solution?” asked the little old gentleman.

“A solution?” called back the Piper.  “Well—?”

A moment’s perfect stillness.  Then, “It’s simple,” said the Bird. (Now his voice was strangely like the Doctor’s.) “I suppose you might call it a salt solution.”

His last three words began to run through Gwendolyn’s mind—­“A salt solution!  A salt solution!  A salt solution!”—­as regularly as the pulse that throbbed in her throat.

“Yes,”—­the Doctor’s voice now, breathless, low, tremulous with anxiety.  “If we want to save her—­”

“Am I her?” interrupted Gwendolyn. (And again somebody sobbed!)

“—­It must be done!”

“There isn’t anything to cry about,” declared Gwendolyn, stoutly.  She felt hopeful, even buoyant.

It was all novel and interesting.  The Doctor began by making grabs at the lump of salt on the Bird’s tail.  The lump loosened suddenly.  He caught it between his palms, after which he began to roll it—­precisely as he had rolled the dough at the Pillery.  And as the salt worked into a more perfect ball, it slowly browned!

Gwendolyn clapped her hands.  “My father won’t know the difference,” she cried.

“You get my idea exactly,” answered the Bird.

The Doctor uncovered the pill-basket, selected a fine, round, toasted example of his own baking, and presented it to the Man-Who-Makes-Faces; presented a second to Gwendolyn; thence went from one to another of the little company, whereat everyone fell to eating.

At once Gwendolyn’s father looked round the circle of picknickers—­as if annoyed by the crunching; but when the Doctor held out the brown salt, he took it, examined it critically, turning it over and over, then lifted it—­and bit.

“Pretty slim lunch this,” he observed.

He ate heartily, until the last salt crumb was gone.  Then, “I’m thirsty,” he declared “Where’s—?”

Instantly the Doctor proffered the glass.  And the other drank—­in one great gasping mouthful.

“Ah!” breathed Gwendolyn.  And felt a grateful coolness on her lips, as if she had slaked her own thirst.

The next moment her father turned.  And she saw that the change had already come.  First of all, he looked down at his hands, caught sight of the crumpled bills, and attempted to stuff them hurriedly into his pocket.  But his pockets were already wedged tight with silk-shaded candles.  He reached round and fed the bills into the mahogany case of the talking-machine.  Next, he emptied his pockets of the double-ended candles, frowned at them, and threw them to one side to wilt.  Last of all, he spied a bit of leather strap, and pulled at it impatiently.  Whereupon, with a clear ring of its silver mountings, his harness fell about his feet.