“Very true; and some clever person might get investigating, and find out you were my papa in reality.”

“Mollie!” said Mr. Walraven, wincing.

“That’s the way in the melodramas, you see, and you are very like the hero of a five-act melodrama.  Well, Mr. Walraven, decide what I shall call you!”

“Suppose you say guardian.  That will hit the mark, I think.  And we will tell people who ask troublesome questions that you are the orphan daughter of a dead cousin of mine.  What do you say?”

“As you please, of course.  It is all one to me.”

The train thundered into the depot presently, and there was the usual turmoil and uproar.  Mr. Walraven called a cab, and half an hour’s rattling over the stony streets brought them to the Walraven mansion.

Mollie Dane, accustomed all her life to dingy hotels and lodgings, glanced up at the grand staircase and imposing hall in rapturous surprise.  Mme. Walraven stood graciously waiting to receive her.

“Here’s a granddaughter for you, mother,” said Mr. Walraven—­“a companion to cheer and brighten your future life.  My adopted daughter—­Mollie Dane.”

The stately old lady bent and kissed the bright, fresh face.

“I am very happy to welcome you, my dear, and will try heartily to make your new home pleasant.  You are tired, of course?  Here, Margaret, show Miss Dane to her room.”

A spruce waiting-maid appeared at the old lady’s summons, and led Miss Dane, through carpeted corridors, into the daintiest of dainty bed-chambers, all blue silk and white lace drapery, and rich furniture, and exquisite pictures.

In all her life long, Mollie had never beheld anything half so beautiful, and she caught her breath with one little cry of delight.

“Shall I help you, miss?” very respectfully asked the girl.  “I’m to be your maid, please, and luncheon will be ready by the time you are dressed.”

Miss Dane permitted her to remove her traveling-dress in ecstatic silence, and robe her in azure silk, just a shade less blue than her eyes.

Very, very pretty she looked, with all her loose golden ringlets, and that brilliant flush on either cheek; and so Mrs. Walraven and her son thought when she appeared, like a radiant vision, in the dining-room.

The afternoon and evening went like a swift dream of delight in viewing the house and its splendors.  She retired early, with a kiss from guardian and grandmamma, her head in a whirl with the events of the day.

Margaret’s tasks were very light that night; her little mistress did not detain her ten minutes.  When she had gone, and she was fairly alone, Mollie sprung up and went whirling round the room in a dance of delight.

“To think of it!” she cried—­“to think all my wildest dreams should come true like this, and my life go on like a fairy tale!  There is Mr. Walraven, the good genii of the story; Mrs. Walraven, the old but well-meaning fairy godmother; and I’m Cinderella, with the tatters and rags turned to cloth of gold, and nothing to do but wait at my ease for the fairy prince, and marry him when he comes.  Cricket!  Cricket! you’re the luckiest witch’s granddaughter that ever danced to her own shadow!”