For the two ensuing days, Marcia and Janet, tense with excitement, discussed the most recently discovered inmate of "Benedict's Folly," and watched incessantly for another glimpse of the face behind the shutter. How was it, they constantly demanded of each other, that a girl of fourteen or fifteen had come to be shut up in the dreary old place? Was she a prisoner there? Was she a relative, friend, or servant? Was she free to come and go?

To the latter question they unanimously voted "No!" How could she be aught else but a prisoner when she was never seen going in or out, was forced to take her exercise after nightfall in the dark garden, and was kept constantly behind closed shutters? No girl of that age in her right mind could deliberately choose a life like that!

"Do you suppose she has always lived there?" queried Marcia, for the twentieth time. And as Janet could answer it no better than herself, she propounded another question:

"And why do you suppose she opened the shutter and looked out, seeming so delighted, when I played, and then drew in again so quickly when we noticed her? Is she afraid of being seen, too?"

"Evidently," said Janet. "She must be as full of mystery as the rest of them. And yet—I can't, somehow, feel that she is like them; she's so sweet and young and—oh, you know what I mean!"

Of course she knew, but it didn't help them in the least to solve this latest phase of their mystery. Finally Marcia, who still clung a bit shyly to the fairy lore of her earlier years, declared:

"I believe she's a regular Cinderella, kept there to do all the hard work of the place by those queer old ladies, and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if she's down in the kitchen this minute, cleaning out the ashes of the stove! Come, Jan, let's go for a walk, and when we come back I'll play on the violin by the window. Maybe our little Cinderella will peep out again!"

The two girls put on their hats and strolled out for their usual afternoon walk and treat of ice-cream soda. But they had gone no farther from their own door than the length of the Benedict brick wall when they were suddenly brought to a halt in front of the closed gate by hearing a sound on the other side of it. It was a sound indicative of some one's struggling attempt to open it—the click of a key turning and turning in the lock and the futile rattling of the iron knob. And then the sound of a voice murmuring:

"Oh, dear! What shall I do? I can't get this open!"

"Janet," whispered Marcia, "that's not the voice of Miss Benedict! I know it! I believe it's Cinderella, and she's trying to run away! What shall we do—stay here?"

"No," Janet whispered back. "Let's just stroll on a little way, and then turn back. We can see what happens then without seeming to be watching."

They walked on quickly for a number of yards, and then turned to approach the gate again. Even as they did so they saw it open, and out stepped a little figure.

It was not Miss Benedict! The slim, trim little girlish form was clad in plain dark clothes of a slightly unfamiliar cut. But the face was the one that had appeared in the upper window, and the thick golden curls were surmounted by a black velvet tam-o'-shanter. On her arm she carried a small market-basket, and her eyes had a bewildered, almost frightened, look.

In their excited interest Marcia and Janet had, quite unconsciously, stopped short where they were and waited to see which way their Cinderella would turn. But though they stood so for an appreciable moment, she turned neither way, and only stood, her back to the gate, gazing uncertainly to the right and left. And then, perceiving them, she seemed to take a sudden resolution, and turned to them appealingly.

"Oh, please, could you direct me how to find this?" she asked, holding out a slip of paper. Marcia hurried to her side and read the written address. And when she had read it, she realized that it was the little grocery-shop on the other side of town where she had once encountered Miss Benedict.

"Why, certainly!" she cried. "You walk over five blocks in that direction, then turn to your left and down three. You can't miss it; it's right next to a shoemaker's place."

The child looked more bewildered than ever, and her eyes strayed to the busy street-crossing near which they stood, crowded with hurrying trucks and automobiles.

"Thank you!" she faltered. "Do I go this way?" And then, with sudden candor, "You see, I'm strange in these streets." Her voice was clear and pretty, but her accent markedly un-American. Both girls half consciously noted it.

"See here," said Marcia; "would you care to have us take you there? We're not going in any special direction, and I've been there before."

An infinitely relieved expression came over the girl's face. "Oh, would you be so kind? I'm just—just scared to death on these streets!"

They turned to accompany her, one on each side, and piloted her safely across the busy avenue. Then, in the quiet stretch of the next block, they proceeded together in complete and embarrassing silence.

It was a silence that Marcia and Janet had fully expected their companion to break—possibly to reveal some reason for her errand and her strangeness in the streets. They themselves hesitated to say much, for fear of seeming curious or anxious to force her confidence. But she said not a word. The strain at last became too much for Janet.

"I don't blame you for feeling nervous in these city streets," she began. "I'm a country girl myself, and I act like a scared rabbit whenever I go out alone here." The girl turned to her with a little confiding gesture.

"I've never been out in them alone before," she said. Then there was another silence during which Marcia and Janet both searched frantically in their minds for something else to say. But it was the girl herself who broke the silence the second time.

"Thank you for your music the other day," she said, turning to Marcia. "I heard you. I often hear you and listen."

"Oh, I'm so glad you liked it!" cried Marcia. "Do you care for music?"

"I adore it," she replied simply.

"Look here!" exclaimed Marcia, suddenly; "how did you know it was I that played the violin?"

"Because I've watched you often—through the slats!"

Marcia and Janet exchanged glances. So the watching was not all on their side of the fence! Here was a revelation!

"That last thing you played the other day—will you—will you tell me what it was?" went on their new companion, shyly.

"Why, that was Schumann's 'TrÄumerei,'" answered Marcia. "I love it, don't you?"

"Yes but I never heard it before; that is, I never remember hearing it, and yet—somehow I seemed to know it. I can't think why. I don't understand. It's as if I'd dreamed it, I think."

Marcia and Janet again exchanged glances. What a strange child this was, who talked of having "dreamed" music that was quite familiar to almost every one.

"Perhaps you heard it at a concert," suggested Janet.

"I never went to a concert," she replied, much to their amazement. And then, perceiving their surprise, she added:

"You see, I've always lived 'way off in the country, in just a little village—till now."

"Oh—yes," answered Janet, pretending enlightenment, though in truth she and Marcia were more bewildered than ever.

But by this time they had reached the little grocery-shop, and all proceeded inside while their new friend made her purchases. These she read off slowly from a slip of paper, and the grocer packed them in her basket. But when it came to paying for them and making change, she became entangled in a fresh puzzle.

"I think you said these eggs were a shilling?" she ventured to the grocer.

"Shilling—no! I said they were a quarter," he retorted impatiently.

"A quarter?" she queried, and turned questioning eyes to her two friends.

"He means this," said Marcia, picking out a twenty-five-cent piece from the change the girl held.

"Oh, thank you! I don't understand this American money," she explained. And Marcia and Janet added another query to their rapidly growing mental list.

On the way back home, however, she grew silent again, and though the girls chatted back and forth about quite impersonal matters,—the crowded streets, the warm weather, the sights they passed,—she was not to be drawn into the conversation. And the nearer they drew to their destination, the more depressed she appeared to become. At last they reached the gate.

"Shall you be going out again to-morrow?" ventured Marcia. "If so, we will go with you, if you care to have us, till you get used to the streets."

The girl gave her a sudden, pleased glance. "I—I don't know," she said. "You see, Miss Benedict hurt her ankle a day or two ago, and she can't get around much, so—so I'm doing this for her. If she wants me to go to-morrow, I will. I'd be so glad to go with you. How shall I let you know?"

"Just hang a white handkerchief to your shutter before you go, and we'll see it. We'll watch for it!" cried Marcia, inventing the signal on the spur of the moment. And then, impetuously, she added:

"My name is Marcia Brett, and this is Janet McNeil. Won't you tell us yours, if we're to be friends?"

"I'm Cecily Marlowe," she answered, "and I'm so glad to know you." As she spoke she was fumbling with the big key in the lock of the gate, and as the latter swung open, she turned once more to face them, with a little pent-up sob: "I don't know why I'm here—and I'm so lonely!" Then, frightened at having revealed so much, she turned quickly away and shut the gate.

As they listened to her footsteps retreating up the path and the closing of the front door Marcia and Janet turned to each other, a thousand questions burning on their tongues. But all they could exclaim in one breath was:

"Did you ever!"