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CHAPTER IX – A REAL LOOKOUT

The news that fourteen seniors of Sanford High School had formed themselves into an organization called the Lookout Club soon spread itself like wildfire throughout the big school. But even that information paled into insignificance beside the fact that Mignon La Salle was not only a member of it but an officer as well. The pupils who as sophomores, juniors and seniors had come to know the tricky French girl during her freshman year for precisely what she was, had been graduated and gone on to other fields. Many of the later lower class girls had, however, seen enough of her methods in the past two years to cherish no illusions concerning her. From her own lips they had heard the most scathing criticism of Marjorie Dean and her friends. Now it became a nine days’ wonder that they should have been so foolish as to admit faithless Mignon into their club.

“I’m positively sick and tired of being quizzed about how we happened to ask Mignon to join the Lookouts,” declared Muriel Harding to Jerry one afternoon as the two girls were leaving the study hall for the day. Two weeks had passed since the meeting at Marjorie Dean’s home and during that time Mignon had lost no opportunity to expatiate at length upon the importance of her position in the club.

“I’ve been asked that a few dozen times, too,” was Jerry’s disgruntled response. “Of course, it’s nobody’s business, but then you can’t blame the girls much. Ever since she joined the Lookouts, Mignon’s been strutting around like a peacock. I suppose she has told everybody in Sanford about it that would listen to her. There’s at least one thing to be thankful for. It’s better for her to talk about herself than about somebody else.”

“Wait until the newness of being treasurer wears off, or until something happens in the club that doesn’t suit her. Then, look out,” predicted Muriel. “I am really sorry her father insisted on sending the Lookouts that check for one hundred dollars,” she added confidentially. “It puts us under obligations to her. Everyone in school knows about that, too. Connie’s aunt gave the same amount, but Mignon has never said a word concerning it.”

“I know it. Yet we couldn’t very well accept the money that others have sent us, and refuse Mr. La Salle’s check,” was Jerry’s gloomy reminder. “None of us had any idea when we started the club that our parents and friends would insist on helping us in that way. Why, we’ve nearly five hundred dollars in our treasury already.”

That their elders should have shown such immediate and generous interest in the Lookout Club had, indeed, been a matter of unparalleled surprise to its members. Jerry Macy’s father and mother had been the first to come forward with a check for fifty dollars. Mr. and Mrs. Dean had contributed twenty-five. Constance Stevens’ aunt had presented them with one hundred dollars in gold, while the parents of the other girls had contributed sums of from five to fifteen dollars. Even Lucy Warner had come to Marjorie, amazement mirrored in her green eyes, as she handed the latter an envelope containing a crisp ten-dollar note. It had been mailed to her, she explained, together with a sheet of paper on which was typed: “Please ask your mother to offer this little contribution to the Lookout Club in her name. A friend.”

This anonymous communication, folded about the ten-dollar note, was as much of a mystery to Lucy as the Observer letters had once been to Marjorie. At first she had rather resentfully suspected that it might have come from Marjorie, Jerry or Constance Stevens, out of pity for her poverty. She said as much to Marjorie, who denied all knowledge of it. After making tactful inquiry of Jerry and Constance, she had assured sensitive Lucy that neither girl was responsible for the gift. She advised Lucy to follow the giver’s direction implicitly. “You can’t return it, because you don’t know who sent it,” she had argued, “and, of course, you don’t wish to keep it. So you can only do as the giver requests.”

It had been a matter of private satisfaction to Lucy when the money had duly been mailed to Mignon with an accompanying line from her mother which merely repeated the giver’s direction. “To the Lookout Club in the name of Mrs. Margaret E. Warner.”

Marjorie had also experienced a degree of quiet happiness in the thought that someone had been so supremely thoughtful of Lucy Warner. Privately she suspected that someone might be Miss Archer. The latter was already very fond of Lucy and also deeply interested in the progress of the club. She had given ample proof of this by sending for Marjorie one afternoon shortly after it had been organized to question her in kindly fashion concerning it. During this heart-to-heart talk with her principal, Marjorie had felt constrained to explain to her concerning why Veronica Browning had refused to become a member of the Lookouts. Miss Archer had merely smiled and said: “Veronica has already explained matters to me. I think her decision a wise one. I fully understand your peculiar position in regard to Mignon, Marjorie. I can only commend you and your friends for your earnest endeavor to help her.” The next day she had mailed a check for ten dollars to Mignon as her good will offering to the young enthusiasts.

Miss Archer’s encouraging words had gone far toward imbuing Marjorie with renewed will to tackle the problem of reforming Mignon. For several days previous to it she had been daily annoyed, not only by the question, “Why have you girls taken Mignon La Salle into your club?” but by the vainglorious boasts of Mignon herself. Miss Archer’s approval had given her fresh energy to live down these annoyances. She had resolutely dismissed them as mere exhibitions of foolish vanity on the part of the French girl. She believed that, later, Mignon would weary of her bragging and subside. But the end of the second week after the club election of officers marked no change in the French girl’s tactics. On the very afternoon that Jerry and Muriel halted in the locker room to continue the exchange of confidences they had begun in the corridor, Marjorie entered it not long afterward, her thoughts on the precise subject they were freely discussing.

“Oh, here’s Marjorie at last,” called Muriel, as the former entered the nearly-empty coat-room. “What kept you and where’s Connie? The rest of the girls couldn’t wait. They all have dates or errands that sent them hustling along.”

“Connie had to see Professor Fontaine,” returned Marjorie. “She will be along soon. Lucy Warner asked me to stop at the office.” The answer contained a trace of annoyance that her hearers instantly caught.

“What did she want with you?” demanded Jerry sharply. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Marjorie. I didn’t mean to ask you that.”

“Granted.” Marjorie smiled faintly. “I intended to tell you, anyway. Lucy is very much hurt over something Mignon said to her. Yesterday morning Mignon walked part of the way to school with her. Lucy said that she was surprised, as Mignon had never even spoken to her until she joined the Lookouts. Almost the first thing she said to Lucy was that she was so glad she had helped her to get the position of secretary to Miss Archer. She went on to say that without it she guessed Lucy wouldn’t have been able to pay her dues in the club, nor could her mother have given the ten dollars to it. You can imagine how Lucy felt. She didn’t say much, only that she was surprised to know that Mignon had helped her to get the secretaryship. Then Mignon said she was surprised to think I had taken all the credit for it, especially as she had gone with me to Miss Archer to see about the position.”

“Well, of all things!” exploded Jerry Macy. “That’s what I call pure, unadulterated nerve! I hope you stood up for yourself, Marjorie Dean. It would be just like you to let Mignon take the credit for something she had nothing to do with. This how to be helpful stunt has gone to her brain, I guess. Next thing we know, she’ll be marching around Sanford High saying that she put the u in universe.” Jerry sniffed her contempt of the too-efficient Mignon.

“I think that’s simply ridiculous!” exclaimed Muriel hotly. “What did you say to Lucy, Marjorie?”

“I had to tell her the truth.” Marjorie’s lips tightened. “Even then Lucy didn’t quite like it because Mignon happened to be with me that day I called on Miss Archer. She’s such a queer girl, and so easily – I won’t say offended. I’ll just say hurt. I managed to straighten things with her, though, but she’s terribly peeved with Mignon. She said she wouldn’t say anything to her about it, unless Mignon starts the subject again. If she does – Well, they will surely quarrel.”

“It’s easy enough to see through Mignon,” was Muriel’s displeased comment. “She has picked Lucy as the only one in the club she can patronize. If I were you, Marjorie, I’d tell Lucy to pay no attention to her whatever beyond being merely civil.”

“I told her that,” nodded Marjorie. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have done so, but I knew she would have to be warned. It came to me in a flash that if Mignon tried to start trouble in the club she’d start it through Lucy.”

“I guess we’ll have to put a label on Mignon,” decided Jerry. “‘Dynamite, handle gently,’ or something like that.”

The three girls giggled in unison at the mental vision Jerry’s proposal conjured. The bare idea of haughty Mignon parading about with such an ominous legend attached to her person was a joy to contemplate.

“We’ll all have to pretend it’s there and treat her accordingly,” chuckled Muriel. “Really and truly, girls, about all we’ve done since the club started is to worry about Mignon’s failings. It’s time we let her take care of herself and turn our minds to something important. So far the Lookouts haven’t looked out for a single chance to spend their money.”

“We’ve all been looking-out, but we haven’t located anyone or anything yet that seems to need it,” stated Jerry with some energy. “That man who was hurt is in a hospital now, and my mother and Mrs. Dean and some others are taking care of his family.”

“I saw something the other day that made me wonder – Oh, here’s Connie!” The arrival of Constance Stevens cut Marjorie’s sentence short. “Now we had better vacate this sacred spot. We aren’t supposed to linger in the locker room after dismissal.”

“There’s a new confectioner’s shop just opened down on Bellevedere Street,” suggested Jerry hopefully. “‘Dexter’s,’ I think the sign says.”

“Let’s try it for variety’s sake,” laughed Marjorie. “When we get there, I’ll tell you about my new idea for the Lookouts.”

“I’ve thought of one, too,” remarked Constance, “but I’ll save it until later.”

“Come on, then.” Jerry took Muriel by the arm and headed the procession of four down the street. It was only a short walk to Jerry’s find, and four voices lifted themselves in approval of the pretty little shop, done in pale blue and white, with its long marble soda fountain at one side of the spacious room, and its dainty white tables and chairs. Having gleefully ordered several delectable new concoctions of which Sargent’s could not boast, the quartette settled themselves to talk.

“You first, Connie,” decreed Marjorie. “We know you’ve something nice to tell us.”

“I don’t know what you may think of my idea, but here it is. You remember the little gray house that I used to live in. Well, it’s not gray any more. It’s been newly painted a pretty dark green with lighter green trimmings. It has never been rented since we lived there. I suppose the owner thought it never would be unless he had it repainted. You know it is quite near to that large silk mill where so many women work. The majority of them are married women and have to help support their families. They live mostly in tumbledown shacks not far from the mill.

“They have to go to work very early in the morning and don’t get home until after six o’clock in the evening. That means that their poor little children who are too young to go to school have to take care of themselves the best way they can. I’ve often walked through that district and seen those poor tiny tots trying to play by themselves and looking utterly neglected. When I think of how much Charlie now has it makes me feel dreadfully for them. I’ve taken them fruit and toys sometimes, but that doesn’t help much. What they need is good care. For the sake of my own little brother, I wish every child might be happy.” A wealth of pity shone in Constance’s blue eyes as she said this.

“Go on, Connie,” urged Jerry. “I begin to see now what you’re driving at.”

Constance smiled, then continued: “What I thought we might do would be to rent the little gray house and make a day nursery of it. Then these poor women could leave their children at it when they go to work in the morning and come after them at night. You remember how large the sitting room is, Marjorie. It takes up almost all of the downstairs part, and there’s a small kitchen in the rear. We could rent the house for ten dollars a month, and pay some good woman and a young girl to come and look after these children until evening.

“From four until six o’clock each day we could take turns, two of us at a time, going there to play with the children and tell them stories. I have talked it over with my aunt and she agrees to pay for the hired help if the Lookouts would like to do the rest. It wouldn’t cost much to give the children a nice luncheon every day. Of course they would have their breakfasts and suppers at home. We couldn’t afford to serve them with the three meals. But the nursery itself and the luncheon would be free. We wouldn’t care to charge them a cent. As for the furniture, we ought to buy two long tables and some kindergarten chairs. Then we ought to furnish one upstairs room with about four little beds and the rest of the things that go in a bed room. Then we would have a place for any of the children that weren’t feeling very well. There is a nice large yard behind the house where they could play in summer or even in winter when the weather wasn’t too cold. I don’t know how many children would come; about twenty or perhaps twenty-five.” Constance paused and eyed her friends wistfully. Their silence made her wonder if they disapproved of her plan.

“Connie Stevens, you are a perfect dear!” exclaimed Muriel. “That’s the nicest plan I ever heard. I love children, and I’ve often noticed those poor little things that live near the silk mill. I’d be only too glad to give one afternoon a week to them.”

“So would I.” Marjorie’s face shone radiant good will. “You are a real Lookout, Connie. It would make us very happy just to know that we were making those poor children happy. At Christmas we could give them a tree, too. I know Captain will want to help with them, too.”

“You are O. K., Connie, and so is your aunt!” exclaimed Jerry. “Tell her for me that she is a peach; I mean a glittering angel. It’s a good thing the club meets to-morrow night. I’d hate to have to go around all week keeping this glorious stunt to myself.”

Brimming with enthusiasm of this worthy project, the quartette fell into an eager discussion of what they would need to put the house in readiness for its juvenile guests, and the probable cost of their little investment in human happiness. It was a protracted session which they held at the round table and when it broke up shortly before six o’clock they had finished a third supply of sundaes and were of the firm opinion that dinner that evening was quite unnecessary to their welfare.

It was not until she had reached her own gate that Marjorie remembered that she, too, had conceived of an idea which the club might see fit to incorporate into their campaign of usefulness. It seemed rather unimportant beside the greater project for the day nursery, yet she believed it was not valueless. However, it would keep, she reflected. She would reserve it until the other scheme was well on the way toward fulfillment.

How wonderful it would be to bring sunshine into the lives of those poor neglected children! She was sure that the other members of the club would hail the plan with acclamation. What a dear, unselfish girl Connie was! How unutterably sweet she had looked when she had said that she wished every child might be happy for the sake of little Charlie. Marjorie’s rapt reflections ended in a sharp gasp of dismay. Recollection of Charlie Stevens brought to her the vision of a black-haired, elfish-eyed girl who had once cravenly left a small runaway to shift for himself on a dark night. There was one member of the club on whom the woes of these children would make no impression, and that member was Mignon La Salle.

CHAPTER X – HALLOWE’EN MYSTERIES

At the meeting of the Lookouts on the following evening, Constance Stevens’ thoughtful suggestion that the club rent the little house where she had once lived and transform it into a day nursery, met the instant approbation of every member except Mignon La Salle. She was far too clever, however, to pit herself openly against the volume of approval that rose to high tide. Only by the eloquent shrugging of her shoulders and the ominous glitter of her black eyes did she betray her contempt for the project. She resolved within herself that no amount of persuasion should induce her to contaminate her precious person for one moment by an association with those “horrible slum children.” These idiotic girls might do as they chose, so would she. On whatever afternoon she should be detailed for duty in this detestable day nursery, she would find some good excuse for evading it.

It would take at least a month, she reasoned, to prepare the house for its small guests. By that time she might have become tired of the club. Still she rather liked her office of treasurer. It made her feel very important to know that the financial affairs of the club were in her hands. The Lookout Club had deposited its funds in the First National Bank of Sanford. She had been officially introduced to its president and duly authorized to deposit or draw out money from it in their name. If she resigned from the club now she would forfeit the privilege to use the check-book which had been given her. The club would soon begin to make frequent demands upon her for money with which to meet the various financial obligations which the furnishing of the day nursery would incur. Mignon decided that she would adroitly shirk the unpleasant duties of the club, but still retain her office. So long as she proved herself to be an efficient treasurer the girls might grumble as much as they pleased about her other shortcomings. At best they were too stupidly set on fair play to demand her resignation.

Intimate association with Rowena Farnham had developed Mignon’s fund of trickery to the nth power. Rowena had taught her how to play a subtle game as long as mere subtlety would answer the purpose. If there came a time when it proved unavailing, she would leave these babies in the lurch as boldly and defiantly, as Rowena had once performed the same unscrupulous office for herself. Contrary to all expectation, Rowena had taken the news of Mignon’s advent into the club with admirable tranquility. For reasons best known to herself, she had adopted this plan of action. Mignon’s letter informing her of the French girl’s sudden rise in popularity had merely caused her to throw back her head and laugh; a sure sign that she meant mischief.

Meanwhile, unconscious of the treacherous thoughts that settled in the brain of their graceless treasurer, thirteen girls were working heart and hand after school hours toward perfecting their cherished plan. The last of October found it nearing completion. The little house in which Constance had once dwelt had taken on a new lease of life. From cellar to roof it was a vision of shining cleanliness and order. The large room where the children were to play looked like a veritable kindergarten. Rows of sturdy plants decked the spotless windows, uncurtained in order to permit the greatest possible amount of light. The two long tables flanked by rows of cunning little chairs, stood ready to receive the coming residents. All sorts of toys had been unearthed from countless trunks in which reposed the treasures of the members’ own early days, now offered at the shrine of childhood. The kitchen had been fitted out completely, and its ample cupboard boasted of a new set of pretty dishes. Upstairs the rest room, with its four tiny white beds and spotless appointments, was a joy to behold.

Marjorie, Jerry, Constance and Irma had diligently gone the rounds of the squalid mill neighborhood, announcing the creation of the nursery to the stolid, wondering inhabitants, and graciously inviting them to bring their children to partake of its benefits. Youngsters from two years of age to six were placed on the eligible list and to the care-worn toilers this enticing offer seemed too good to be true. The nursery was scheduled to open on Saturday afternoon, the first of November. A competent elderly woman and a strong, willing maid had been secured and so far as they knew the Lookouts had left nothing undone that might add to the welfare of their tiny charges.

“Really, children, I think we’ve earned our Hallowe’en party to-night!” exclaimed Marjorie Dean, as in company with Jerry, Irma, Muriel, Susan Atwell and Constance they left the nursery, to which they had repaired after school for a last fond survey of their pet.

“Please hurry over to our house early,” requested Jerry. “This is to be a weird and awesome night when spirits walk abroad and witches ride the air on broomsticks. Don’t one of you dare to forget to bring a broom with you.”

“Very mysterious,” giggled Susan. “I suppose you’ve fixed up some awesome sights for our timid eyes. You’re awfully stingy not to tell us a thing about it beforehand. All we know is that we’re to wear black masks and black dominos, and each bring a broom.”

“All shall be revealed to you in due season.” Jerry raised a dramatic arm, then dropped it and grinned tantalizingly.

“Never mind,” consoled Marjorie. “We haven’t long to wait. It’s five o’clock now. Three hours more and we’ll be in the thick of weird, mysterious happenings.”

“Three hours is as long as three days when one’s curiosity is whetted to a sharp point,” laughed Irma. “Those queer, phosphorescent invitations of yours, Jerry, were enough to keep us guessing what the rest of the party would be like.”

“Some invitations,” chuckled Jerry. “The Crane put me on; I mean gave me the idea for them.”

“When mine came, I opened it and thought somebody had sent me a queer-looking bit of paper for a joke,” confessed Susan, “so I threw it in the waste basket. I had the pleasure of hunting through the basket for it the next day, after Marjorie had explained it to me.” This sheepish admission was followed by Susan’s inevitable giggle, and five voices immediately echoed it.

With the happy prospect of the grand opening of the nursery on the morrow and Jerry’s delightful Hallowe’en frolic that evening, the sextette of girls was in high spirits as they sauntered along in the sharp, October air. Marjorie could hardly remember a time when she had felt more utterly at peace with the world. A quiet happiness permeated her whole being, and she was filled with the sense of satisfaction which the performance of a good deed always brings.

Seven o’clock saw her slipping into the exquisite peachblow evening frock of shimmering silk which she was to wear to the party under her domino, nor could she be other than pleasantly elated at the story her mirror told her. Her curls arranged in a low, graceful knot at the back of her shapely head, her cheeks glowing with excitement and her brown eyes two pools of radiant light, Marjorie could not be blamed for taking a pardonable pride in her appearance. She heaved a soft little sigh of regret as she covered the glory of her new frock with a somber domino, and hid her witching face behind a black mask. Then she ran lightly downstairs, stopping in the hall to annex the new broom Delia had left there for her.

“I’m ready, Captain,” she called in deep, sepulchral tones, as she paused in the doorway of the living room where her mother sat reading.

Sight of the sinister figure and sound of the hollow voice startled Mrs. Dean briefly, as she glanced up from her book.

Marjorie’s merry laugh rang out as she hastily stripped off the concealing domino and mask. “I thought I could scare you,” she teased. “Now tell me that I look very gorgeous and kiss me good-bye, for I must hurry along to the land of spooks and witches.”

“Remember, fine feathers don’t make fine birds,” retaliated her mother, fond admiration of her pretty daughter in her sweeping survey of the dainty vision before her.

“That means I look specially nice,” translated Marjorie. “Thank you, Captain.” Holding the broom rifle fashion, she brought one hand to her forehead in brisk salute. “Now the gallant army is off duty for a pleasant evening. I hope I haven’t kept General waiting.” Marjorie hastily resumed her cloak and mask.

“Ask him,” smiled her mother as she accompanied her to the door. Lifting the flap of the mask she kissed Marjorie tenderly. “Have a good time, dear, and come home in good season.”

“What have we here!” exclaimed Mr. Dean in mock horror as a weird, black-robed figure, bearing the proverbial witch’s broom, advanced down the walk toward the automobile in which he was seated. “Must I show the white feather and flee from this ghastly apparition?”

“You must not,” emphasized a very human young voice. “Stand your ground or be court-martialed.”

“I won’t budge an inch. I prefer the company of shades, rather than lose my prestige as an invincible general,” flung back Mr. Dean valiantly.

Helping Marjorie to a seat beside him in the limousine, and carefully disposing the broom in the tonneau, they were soon speeding down the road to cover the short distance that lay between the homes of the two families. A continual ripple of most unspectre-like laughter proceeded from behind the black mask as they scudded along. Between Marjorie and her father the serious side of life seldom rose. Whenever they were together, they invariably behaved like two gleeful children out for a holiday.

“Now go and keep company with the other horrors of Hallowe’en,” was Mr. Dean’s parting comment as he set Marjorie down at the gate, kissed her and handed her the broom.

“Just watch me go,” she called back merrily, turning to flaunt the broom in fantastic salute as she flitted up the long walk to the dimly lighted house. “Things certainly have a ghostly look,” she decided as she rang the bell.

The next instant she uttered a sharp little cry as the door opened and a frisky imp in a tight-fitting suit of black seized her by the hand and hauled her inside. From the shadowy hall a tall sheeted form loomed up before her, giving vent to a deep groan. Before she could do more than gasp, her lively conductor had possessed himself of her broom, decorated it with a piece of wide blue ribbon, pinned a rosette of similar ribbon to her domino, both of which he snapped up from a tray held by the sheeted spectre. Then he whisked her into what had formerly been the Macys’ living room. It was now transformed into a huge cavern, dimly lighted by grinning Jack-o’-lanterns. Masked and black-garbed figures flitted about its spacious confines at will. In one corner of the room stood a tripod, from which hung a large kettle. Around the kettle danced three terrifying figures who might easily have been identified as the weird sisters who appeared to the ill-starred Macbeth.

Straight to the fatal witch rendezvous Marjorie was towed by her insistent guide. Pausing in her grotesque dance, one of the weird sisters seized a cup from a number of others which stood on a small table near the tripod. Flourishing it, she pounced upon a small ladle that stood upright within the utensil. Dipping it into the steaming contents of the kettle, she filled the cup and offered it to Marjorie. “Drink ye the witches’ deadly brew,” she croaked.

The “witches’ deadly brew” proved to be very excellent chicken bouillon, which did not come amiss after Marjorie’s ride in the cool autumn air. By the time she had finished it, her goblin conductor had scurried away to answer the ring of the door bell, leaving her to mingle with the other sinister shapes that wandered singly or in twos and threes about the room. As everyone was firmly bent on keeping his or her identity a secret, conversation languished among that mysterious company. It was comparatively easy to distinguish the masculine portion of the assemblage from the feminine, however, by reason of height and the mannish shoes that were worn by at least half of the dominoed guests.

For at least fifteen minutes after Marjorie’s arrival, the helpful imp was compelled to do constant duty at the front door, and the impromptu cavern soon overran with its strange, uncanny occupants. In the midst of their perambulations a reverberating peal of manufactured thunder rent the air and the zealous imp skipped into the room.

“Friends and fellow spooks,” he declaimed in a high, piping voice, “I am the humble servitor of the Spirit of Hallowe’en. Come with me and I will show you the Cavern of Illusion where she awaits you!”

The humble servitor pranced down the long hall to the Cavern of Illusion, once the back parlor, an eager crowd of somber-looking followers at his heels. It was an orderly rush, however, although the fell silence that had pervaded the company at first was now broken by murmurs of subdued speech and frequent giggles. The Cavern of Illusion was in absolute darkness except at one end, where a square of white, presumably a sheet, stretched itself in the form of a screen. A faint light from behind it caused it to stand out clearly against the surrounding blackness.

“The Spirit of Hallowe’en,” shrilled the imp, who had stationed himself close to the screen. Hardly had he spoken the words when a long roll of thunder sounded and a fantastic shape in the high-peaked hat and circular cloak that betokens the legendary witch of All Hallow’s night, leaped upon the screen. On one shoulder perched a black cat and in one hand she bore a broom stick. Making a sweeping curtsey, she disappeared from the screen, to reappear instantly minus cat and broomstick. Curtseying again, she began a dance, fantastic in the extreme, but singularly graceful. She dipped, whirled and swayed, using her cloak with pleasing effect, and ended the performance by apparently flying straight upward to disappear at the top of the screen.