large family; one selfish one that does what she will—sometimes it's a he!—while the others do what they must. Show me your books," said Mrs. Jones-Dexter rising. "How did you know my name?"

"Aunt Camilla—Mrs. Charleford—told us after you went out," said Happie.

"Was that Mrs. Charleford? Are you her niece? What are you doing with a tea room then?" demanded Mrs. Jones-Dexter.

"She is mother's oldest friend, but not really my aunt," said Happie. "We have to have a tea room or something, Mrs. Jones-Dexter, to help mother now that we are old enough. We have only the newest novels; I'm sorry."

"I'm not. What right have you to think me a fossil?" But this time Mrs. Jones-Dexter had a glint in her eye that was not cross. She selected the very latest detective story, to Happie's amazement, and departed.

Happie turned back to her duties, and there, seated alone at the smallest and most distant of the tables, was the big man of the cloak and sombrero-like hat whom the girls had noticed with aversion as he looked in at the window that morning. Polly was standing beside him in a matter-of-fact way, trying to get his attention to ask his desires, but he was unconscious of her.

Laura was playing, playing well, as she always did. The mysterious stranger was watching and listening to her, and patient Polly was unnoticed.

Happie walked towards the table, passing before the piano, and thus diverted the man's eyes to Polly.

"Yes, if you please," she heard him say then. "English breakfast tea, as strong as possible. No cream, but lemon, yes. Who plays there?"

"My sister," said Polly proudly. "She sings, too, and she makes up lovely music to words she writes; poetry, you know. She's gifted."

"Poor child! What age has she?" asked the man.

"Thirteen, just," said Polly. "I'll get your tea."

"You have a queer little kindergarten tea room," remarked the singular man as Happie passed him. "I hear small feet and small voices above stairs."

"A dancing school, but that is not ours," replied Happie. But it seemed to her that her answer fell on ears that did not hear, for there was no response in the melancholy face that turned again towards Laura, as the long hand went up to the drooping moustaches and the man waited for his tea.

He sat there a long time. Laura played on, at first with an eye to applause, but after a while losing herself in her music, as she always did, and improvising, entirely forgetful of hearers. She was a puzzling mixture to downright Happie, with her posing, her affectations, her selfishness, and yet her genuine passion for music and her extraordinary talents.

The strange man lingering so long made Margery and Happie so uneasy that Margery at last called Laura from the piano, but still he sat there, drinking so much tea that Gretta became uneasy from another cause.

"I shouldn't leave him have it," she said with a rare relapse into her dialect, caused by extreme earnestness. "He'll get down sick for us, right here. He acts behexed."

"Oh, Gretta, what is that?" laughed Happie. "Hexe, a witch, in German,—I see! I'm not afraid of his hurting himself, but I do wish he'd go."

After a while the man arose to his great height and slowly walked down the room. He paused at the piano, moved one hand over the keys as though he would have struck them, did not, put on his drooping hat, removed it instantly, turned and bowed to the young maids of the tea room and departed.

There was a lull in business in the middle of the afternoon; it revived between four and five, and at six, when Polly pulled close the curtains of the window and locked the door, it being the hour at which Mrs. Scollard had insisted the business of the day should end, there were five tired, but triumphant girls who drew five long breaths and looked at one another.

"What a day!" cried Happie. "Just as busy as we could be, and look at my fudge!"

"How can we, when it's all gone except those crumbly bits?" inquired Polly.

"And all the books out, only those four, and they had the prettiest bindings!" added Laura.

"We never could keep it up every day like this. If we could what would become of the flat?" asked Gretta.

"Oh, well, of course it won't keep up like this! This is holiday time. If we succeed we shall have a quiet little business at other times. Let's count up!" Margery produced her cash box as she spoke, her face flushed and excited.

She piled bills, half dollars, quarters, dimes and nickels separately, and counted the cheering heaps. "Thirty-eight dollars and sixty cents!" she cried triumphantly. "And that does not include the rent of books, for that isn't paid till they are returned. There are forty-six books out—that makes two dollars and thirty cents more. Oh, I wonder how much of this is profit? My goodness, Happie, I wonder what rent we pay?"