The Man-Who-Makes-Faces regarded her solemnly.  “Suppose we hadn’t gone around,” he said.  “Just suppose.”  Before her, in a line, were They, the Doctor, the Policeman, Puffy and the Bird.  He indicated them by a nod.

She nodded too, comprehending.

“But now,” went on the little old gentleman, “we must all absquatulate.”  He took her hand.

“Oh, must you?” she asked regretfully.  Absquatulate was a big word, but she understood it, having come across it one day in the Dictionary.

“Good-by.”  He leaned down.  And she saw that his round black eyes were clouded, while his square brush-like brows were working with the effort of keeping back his tears.  “Good-by!” He stepped back out of the waiting line, turned, and made off slowly, turning the crank of the hand-organ as he went.

Now the voices of They spoke up.  “We also bid you good-night,” They said politely.  “We shall have to go.  People must hear about this.”  And shoulder to shoulder They wheeled and followed the little old gentleman.

“But my Puffy!” said Gwendolyn.  “I’d like to keep him.  I don’t care if he is shabby.”

For answer there was a crackling and crashing in the underbrush, as if some heavy-footed animal were lumbering away.

“I think,” explained her father, “that he’s gone to make some poor little boy very happy.”

“Oh, the Rich Little Poor Boy, I guess,” said Gwendolyn, contented.

The Bird was just in front of her.  He looked very handsome and bright as he flirted his rudder saucily, and darted, now up, now down.  Presently, he began to sing—­a glad, clear song.  And singing, rose into the air.

“Oh!” she breathed.  “He’s happy ’cause he got that salt off his tail.”  When she looked again at the line, the Policeman was nowhere to be seen.  “Doctor!”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you go.”

“The Doctor is right here,” said her mother, soothingly.

Gwendolyn smiled.  And put one hand in the clasp of her mother’s, the other in a bigger grasp.

“Tired out—­all tired out,” murmured her father.

She was sleepy, too—­almost past the keeping open of her gray eyes.  “Long as you both are with me,” she whispered, “I wouldn’t mind if I was back in the nursery.”

The glow that filled the Land now seemed suddenly to soften.  The clustered tapers had lessened—­to a single chandelier of four globes.  Next, the forest trees began to flatten, and take on the appearance of a conventional pattern.  The grass became rug-like in smoothness.  The sky squared itself to the proportions of a ceiling.

There was no mistaking the change at hand!

“We’re getting close!” she announced happily.

The rose-colored light was dim, peaceful.  Here and there through it she caught glints of white and gold.  Then familiar objects took shape.  She made out the pier-glass; flanking it, her writing-desk, upon which were the two silver-framed portraits.  And there—­between the portraits—­was the flower-embossed calendar, with pencil-marks checking off each figure in the lines that led up to her birthday.