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CHAPTER XIII
"STAR OF THE WEST"

All the way home Azalea wondered how she would be received.

Both Patty and Bill were somewhat suspicious of her and would naturally question her as to where she had been all day. She was tempted to tell them the whole truth and throw herself on their mercy, and but for one thing she would have done so. This was the fact that she had previously taken the baby, Fleurette, over to the studios and had used the child in the pictures.

This she felt quite sure the Farnsworths would not forgive.

Azalea would not have done it, if it had occurred to her at first how the parents would resent such use of their child. But Mr. Bixby had needed a very young baby in a certain picture and Azalea, anxious to please, had offered to bring Fleurette over. She was herself so devoted to the little one and so careful of her, she felt no fear of any harm coming to her. Nor did it, for the infant was good and tractable, and did all that was required of her without any trouble. However, little was required except for her to coo and gurgle in one scene, and to lie quietly asleep in another.

But there was one more short scene where Azalea had to rescue the baby from a burning house. To be sure the flames were artificial and there was no danger from the fire, but the baby was thrown from an upper window, and caught by Azalea, who stood down on the ground.

So accustomed was Fleurette to being tossed about, and so familiar to her was the frolicking with Azalea that she made no objections and was a most delightful addition to the picture.

But something happened to the film, and the director was most anxious to take the scene over again.

Azalea, however, positively refused to take Fleurette again to the studio. She knew how she would be censured, should it be found out, and now Nurse Winnie and the two Farnsworths, as well as Elise, were all watching for anything mysterious that Azalea might do.

She felt almost as if she were living over a slumbering volcano, that might at any moment blow her up. For Elise, she felt sure, would not keep the sampler incident to herself, and if Farnsworth heard of it he would be newly angry at that deception.

So Azalea's delight at her success with the moving-picture company was very much tempered with dismay at her position in the Farnsworth household.

She was almost tempted to run away from them altogether and shift for herself.

Indeed, she practically decided, as she rode in the trolley-car, that if they were hard on her when she reached home, she would run away. Of a wayward disposition and without really good early training, Azalea thought only of herself, and selfishly desired her own advancement without thought or regard for other people.

But, to her pleased surprise, when she entered the gate she heard gay voices on the verandah, and knew that guests were there,—and several of them.

Unwilling to meet them in her street clothes, she slipped around to the back entrance and went in at the servants' door.

"I don't want to appear until I can dress," she explained to the cook, and went upstairs by a back way.

Half an hour later, a very different looking Azalea went down the front staircase and out onto the porch.

She wore a becoming dress of flowered organdie, with knots of bright velvet, and her pretty hair was carefully arranged.

Smiling and happy-looking, she met the guests and greeted them with a graceful cordiality.

"Where have you been?" cried Elise, but Azalea ignored the question and quickly spoke to some one else.

Mona and Roger Farrington were there, and Philip Van Reypen and Chick Channing. This quartette had motored up from New York to dine, and Patty had already persuaded them to say they would stay over night.

"I'm crazy for a house party," she said, "haven't had one for 'most a week! Oh, yes. I've a couple of house guests, but I mean a real party. Let's make it a week-end, and have lots of fun!"

The visitors were entirely willing, and after telephoning home for additional apparel, they settled down to enjoy themselves.

As they hadn't much more than accomplished this settling when Azalea arrived, there was no comment made on her absence all day.

In fact, Patty rather forgot about it, in the multitude of her conferences with the housekeeper and the maids.

Farnsworth said nothing in the presence of the guests, and Elise, after her first exclamation, subsided.

In fact, Elise was more interested in the society of Channing and Van Reypen than in the mystery of Azalea's disappearances.

Betty and Ray Gale had been telephoned for, and they came gladly, so that at dinner there was quite a big party.

"You certainly are a great little old hostess, Patty!" exclaimed Roger Farrington, as they seated themselves at table. "I liked you heaps as a girl, but as mistress of a fine house you are even more charming."

"Thank you, Sir Hubert Stanley!" smiled Patty; "and I'm glad to admit that I learned a lot about managing a house from your gifted wife. Do you remember, Mona, how we kept house down at 'Red Chimneys'?"

"Indeed I do!" Mona answered, "what fun we had that summer!"

"I'll subscribe to that!" declared Farnsworth, "for it was then and there that I met the lady who is now my wife! And,—I kissed her the moment I saw her!"

"Oh, Cousin William!" cried Azalea, "did you really? What did she say?"

"Flew at me like a small cyclone of wrath! But as I had mistaken her for my cousin Mona, she couldn't hold me very guilty."

"Yes! A lot Patty looks like me!" said Mona, who was a dark-haired beauty.

"But I didn't see her face," pleaded Bill; "I just saw a girl on the verandah of your house, Mona, and I took it for granted it was you!"

"It's all ancient history," said Patty, laughing. "And, to tell the truth, I'm glad it happened,—for otherwise, I mightn't have become interested in—Mona's cousin."

"Then I bless my mistake!" said Farnsworth, so fervently that Patty shook her head at him.

"Mustn't talk so before folks," she said, reprovingly. "Now, people all, what shall we do with this lovely evening? It's moonlight, so any who are romantically inclined can ramble about the place, and flirt in the arbours,—while those who prefer can play bridge or—the piano. Or just sit and chat."

"Me for the last!" cried Mona. "I've oceans to talk about with you, Patty. Can't we play all by ourselves for a little while?"

"Certainly," said Patty, as she rose from the table. "Mona and I are going to sit on the wistaria porch and gossip for half an hour. After that, we're all going to dance,—and maybe sing."

"Good enough programme," agreed Van Reypen. "For one half-hour, then, each may do as he or she wishes!"

"Yes, if you all promise to be back here in half an hour."

"Make it an hour, Patty," laughed Elise, who had her own plans.

"All right," said Patty, carelessly, who cared only that her guests should enjoy themselves.

"I want to tell you something," Mona said, as she and Patty at last were alone on the porch. "Who is Azalea?"

"I call that asking, not telling," laughed Patty; "however, I'll reply. She is Bill's cousin,—not first cousin, but the daughter of his father's cousin. So you see,—a distant cousin. Why?"

"I'll tell you why. Roger and I go to the 'movies' sometimes,—and in a picture, the other night, we saw Azalea."

"Saw Azalea! You mean some one who looked like her."

"No; Azalea Thorpe herself! Roger and I both knew her at once. And it was quite a new picture,—taken recently, I mean. Did you know she did such things?"

"No, and I can't think she does. It must have been only a remarkable resemblance, Mona."

"No, Patty. We're positive. And, too, she was doing Wild West stunts,—riding bareback, shooting, throwing a lariat,—all those things,—and Azalea can, you know."

"Yes, I know; and there is something queer going on. It may be that when Azalea goes off for a day or part of a day, that's where she goes. But I can hardly believe it. And why does she keep it so secret?"

"I suppose she thinks you and Bill wouldn't approve."

"And we certainly would not! I don't think it can be possible, Mona. But don't say anything to anybody,—not even to Little Billee,—until I can talk to Azalea, myself. I can do lots with her, alone, but not if anybody else is present."

"Where is she now?"

"Gone for a moonlight stroll with Phil. He's decidedly taken with her."

"Yes, I know it. He said so on the way up here. He thinks she's a fine girl—and he admires those careless, unconventional ways of hers."

"Well, I don't," Patty sighed. "I like Azalea for lots of things,—she's good company and kind-hearted,—and she's devoted to Baby,—but I can't like those free and easy manners! But she's a whole lot better than when she first came! Then she was really a wild Indian! I've been able to tone her down a little."

"You've done wonders for her, Patty. She ought to be very grateful."

Patty made a wry face. "No, she isn't grateful. People never are grateful for that sort of thing. And she doesn't even know she's different! I've had to train her without her own knowledge! But she's chameleon-like, in some ways, and she picks up a lot just from being with mannerly people."

"She does indeed! She's quite correct now,—in her actual doings. It's only in some burst of enthusiasm that she oversteps the bounds of propriety. Well, that's all. I thought I'd tell you,—for it isn't right that you shouldn't know. And there's no mistake. There's only one Azalea Thorpe."

"Was her name on the programme?"

"No; she didn't have a star part,—not even a named part. She was one of a crowd,—cowboys, ranch girls, and a general horde of 'woollies.' Don't accuse her of it, Patty; get around her and see what she says."

"Goodness, Mona, give me credit for a little tact! I'll find out in the best way. What was the name of the play?"

"'Star of the West.' A splendid thing,—have you seen it?"

"No; we almost never go."

"Oh, we go a lot, we love moving pictures."

"I'd like to see this one,—before I speak to Azalea. Is it on now?"

"Yes, at The Campanile. Let's go down to-morrow,—just you and me. We can be back in a couple of hours."

"Well, I'll see. Probably I can go."

In the meantime, Azalea and Van Reypen were talking of the same play.

"I saw a picture play last night," Phil was saying, "with a girl in it that looked exactly like you."

"What was the play?" asked Azalea, interestedly.

"'Star of the West.' It was a good play, but I was most interested in the girl I speak of. She was really your double,—but she did things that I don't believe you could compass,—athletic as you are."

"I'd like to see it," said Azalea, thoughtfully.

"Oh, go with me, will you? I'm going to stay up here over the week-end,—and we could skip down to-morrow afternoon, and be back by dinner time."

"I'd love to go,—but Patty doesn't greatly approve of the 'movies.'"

"Oh, never mind that. You've a right to go, if you choose. And you needn't say where we're going, till we get back. Say we're going to take in a matinée."

"Well, I'll go," Azalea said decidedly, "for I'm crazy to see that play.

What's the girl's name?"

"Dunno. It wasn't on the bill. But, truly, Azalea, you'll be surprised to see how much like you she is!"

Azalea hesitated. She knew it was taking a great risk to go with Phil, but she was most anxious to see how she looked on the screen.

This, she knew, was the first picture released in which she had taken a part. It was only a small part, but she had done well, the manager said, and that had been the reason for her further advancement.

She had wanted to see it over at the studio, but her visits there had been so hurried, and she had been so eager to get back, she never dared take the time to see the pictures exhibited.

The two returned to the house, and Patty greeted them gaily.

"Well, wanderers, you're the last of the company to report! Where have you been?"

"Surveying your domain, ma'am," Phil replied; "it's most beautiful by moonlight,—especially when viewed in company with a fair lady."

He bowed gallantly to Azalea, who was looking her best,—a slight blush of excitement on her cheeks at the compliment.

"It is lovely," she said; "the house, from the west lawn, is a wonderful picture! Patty, Mr. Van Reypen has asked me to go to New York with him to-morrow afternoon,—to a matinée. May I?"

"Certainly, my child. And as Mona and I are going down in the early afternoon, we'll all go together in the big car."

Then all went to the hall for a dance. The large reception hall was admirably adapted for this purpose, and the strains of a fine phonograph soon set all feet in motion.

Dancing with Raymond Gale, Azalea pirouetted gaily with some fancy steps.

"Good!" he cried, falling into the spirit of the thing, and they pranced about in a mad whirl.

"How Western she is," Elise said to Phil, with whom she was sedately one-stepping.

"Clever dancer," he returned, briefly, and the subject was not continued.

"Come for a walk," said Gale to Azalea, as the dance was over.

"No; let's sit on the porch a minute," she preferred.

"Come along to this end, then, for I want to say something particular," he urged, and they found a pleasant seat, from which they could see the moon through the leafy wistaria branches.

"Look here, Azalea," Gale began, "I know what you're up to,—with the Bixbys."

"What!" Azalea's voice was full of fear.

"Yes, and there's no reason you should be so secretive about it."

"Oh, Raymond,—there is reason! Don't tell on me, will you?"

"Of course not,—if you forbid it. But when Farnsworth asks me, what am I to say?"

"What does he ask you?"

"Who the Bixbys are. And other awkward questions. You see, I know old Bixby,—and I knew as soon as I saw him here that day that he had drawn you into his snares."

"Don't put it that way—I wasn't exactly drawn in."

"Well, you're in, all right. Why, Azalea, I saw you in a picture in New York, night before last."

"You did?"

"Yes; in 'Star of the West.' Don't try to fib out of it—"

"What!"

"Now you needn't get mad! I know you're not entirely above a little fibbing, now and then!"

"I think I'll go in the house,—I don't like you."

"Oh, Zaly, behave yourself. Be a sensible girl, and face the music! Why don't you own it all up, and tell Farnsworth the whole story? It isn't a criminal thing to act in the 'movies.'"

"They think it is,—Bill and Patty. They'd never forgive me!"

"Oh, pshaw, they would, too! Anyway, I want you to do it,—tell 'em, I mean. Won't you, Zaly,—won't you,—for my sake?"

Gale was sincere and earnest, and Azalea thrilled to the strong tenderness in his voice as he urged her.

But she hesitated to consent.

"I can't, Ray," she said, at last. "Truly, I can't. They'd—they'd turn me off—"

"Oh, Azalea, what nonsense! They'd do no such thing!"

"Yes, they would. You don't know Bill. He's good and generous and kind,—but he hates anything like deceit,—and almost worse, he hates the whole moving-picture racket. I don't mean the pictures themselves, exactly,—but the idea of anybody of his being in them. And, oh, Ray,—it isn't only myself,—but I took—I took—"

"I know,—you took the kiddy."

"Yes, I did. It didn't seem any harm, at first, and then, one day when I brought her home,—she was sleepy,—unusually so, I mean, and Nurse said she had been given soothing sirup,—and—I found out afterward she had! Mrs. Bixby had given her some, to keep her quiet in the picture, you know. Of course, I never dreamed of such a thing,—why, Ray, that little girl is as dear to me,—almost,—as she is to Patty! I wouldn't harm a hair of her blessed little curly head! And I'd never have allowed a drop of that sirup, if I'd known it! But I just gave her to Mrs. Bixby to hold, while I changed my costume,—Mrs. Bixby seems a good woman—"

"Oh, come now, I don't believe it hurt the child."

"You don't know anything about such things. I don't know much, but I know they must never have a bit of that stuff! Anyway, Ray?—we must go in now,—don't give my secret away until I give you permission, will you?"

"No; if you'll promise to think it over and try to believe what I've told you,—that it's best to tell all."

"All right, I'll promise that, and I may decide to tell. But I want to wait until after to-morrow, anyway."

CHAPTER XIV
AT THE PICTURE PLAY

By a little adroit manoeuvring Van Reypen managed things so that he and Azalea did not go to New York in the motor with Patty and Mona, but went down by themselves in the train.

For Azalea was most anxious that Patty should not know she was going to the moving pictures, and especially that she was going to see "Star of the West."

It had already become a popular picture and was drawing crowds. And though Azalea's part in it was a small one, yet her work was so good that one or two reviews had mentioned it approvingly.

Azalea had hoped that it would be possible to let Van Reypen continue in his mistaken impression that the girl on the screen was not herself, but some one who looked marvellously like her.

But the first sight of herself in the play so thrilled Azalea that she was unable to repress an exclamation of surprised delight.

"It is you, Azalea!" whispered Phil, realising the truth. "How did you manage it? Oh, you wonderful girl!"

Azalea looked at him in astonishment. In the dim light of the theatre she could see his face glowing with pride and pleasure.

She gave a little gasp. "Oh, Phil, aren't you—I mean—are you glad about it?"

"I don't know,—Azalea,—it seems so queer—but, oh, look at that! Did you really do that, Azalea!"

For the girl on the screen had flung herself, bareback, on a vicious, bucking pony, and holding on by his mane, went through the most hairbreadth escapes, yet was not thrown. Indeed, she finally tamed the wild creature, and dashed madly off on her errand. This was the rescue of a baby who had been left behind, when those who should have looked after the child were themselves fleeing from a cyclone.

The scene was remarkably well staged, and the illusion of the cyclone wonderfully worked out.

The baby, left to the care of servants, was in a lightly built house that rocked in the blasts. It threatened to collapse at any minute, and Azalea, racing against time, in the face of the gale, spurred on her flying steed, and reached the house just as it crashed to ruins.

Flinging herself from the horse, she dashed into the piles of debris, and, the gale nearly blowing her off her feet, contrived to find the child.

Of course, in the taking of the picture, Fleurette had been in no danger whatever; in fact, had not been in the falling house at all, until time for Azalea to find her in the ruins.

But this was not apparent to the audience. To them it seemed that the baby must have been there all the time.

Van Reypen sat breathless, watching the screen with rapt attention.

He thought little of the baby's danger, knowing the methods of making pictures, but he was lost in admiration of Azalea, her fine athletic figure, and her free, strong motions, as she battled with the winds and triumphantly snatched the baby from harm.

Then, the child in one arm, she flung herself again on the pony's back, the animal prancing wildly, but tractable beneath Azalea's determined guidance, and they were off like the wind itself to a place of safety. The wild ride was picturesque, if frightful, and there was a burst of applause from the spectators, as Azalea, panting, exhausted, but safe, at last reached her goal, and leaning down from the horse, placed the baby in the arms of its weeping, distracted mother.

Azalea's beauty was of the sort that needs excitement or physical exertion to bring out its best effects and as she stood beside the quivering, spent horse, her own heart beating quickly, her own breath coming hard, she was a picture of vivid beauty.

Her dress was disordered, her hair hung in loosened coils, her collar was half torn off by the wind, but the happy smile and the justifiable pride in her success lighted up her countenance till it was fairly radiant.

"By cricky, you're stunning!" exclaimed Phil, under his breath, as he grasped her hand in congratulation.

And so, because of his praise and appreciation Azalea forgot her fears of censure from the Farnsworths and gave herself up to the delights of the moment.

She would not have felt so comfortable had she heard Patty's remarks at sight of the picture.

Patty and Mona had come to the theatre later than Azalea, and had been given seats on the other side of the large house. The darkness, too, made it unlikely that they should see each other, and so Azalea remained in blissful ignorance of Patty's presence.

* * * * *

"Of course, it's Azalea," Patty said to Mona, the moment the girl appeared on the screen. "I—oh, I don't know what to think about it,—but, isn't she splendid!"

"She is! That rig is most becoming to her, and she has such poise,—so strong and free, yet graceful."

"She's certainly at her best."

"Of course, the director saw her possibilities and has brought out all her best points. How pretty her hair is,—loose, like that."

"Yes, she's a real beauty,—of the true breezy, Western type. But, Mona, what will Bill say? I do believe I shall feel more lenient about it all than he will! He is conservative, you know, for all his Western bringing up. Oh, my gracious, Mona, what's she doing now?"

"She'll kill herself with that wild horse! She never can get on his back!"

In a state of great excitement, they watched Azalea's skilful management of the pony and clutched each other's hands in speechless fear as she tore through the gale to rescue her brother's child.

And then—when at last Azalea emerged from the tumbled-down ruin of the little old house, with a baby in her arms, Patty gave a cry of startled fear, and then clapped her hand over her mouth, lest her dismay be too evident to those sitting near by.

"Mona!" she whispered, "it's Fleurette!"

"No! I don't believe it! You can't tell,—such a little baby—they all look alike,—you're imagining, Patty—"

"It is! it is! That's where they went when Azalea took Baby off for a whole day,—and two or three times for an afternoon or a morning! Oh, I can't stand it!"

Patty buried her face in her hands and refused to look up while Azalea rode the galloping horse, with the child held fast in one arm.

Mona felt it must be true. To be sure she couldn't really recognise Fleurette's face, but she was certain that Patty's mother heart could make no mistake, and it was small wonder that she was overcome at seeing her child in such scenes.

"Hush, Patty," said Mona, as Patty's sobs began to sound hysterical, "hush,—this is only a picture, you know,—this isn't really Fleurette,—she is safe at home—"

"But she must have been here! Azalea must have carried her, really—on that terrific horse! They couldn't have got the pictures if she hadn't!"

"Well, it's all right, anyway. It didn't hurt the baby—"

"Oh, hush, Mona! you don't know what I'm suffering! I guess if your baby had been taken off and put through such awful doings, you'd know what I feel! My baby,—my little flower baby! In that awful crashing, tumbling down old shanty! Oh, I can't stand it!"

"Let's go out, Patty, there's no reason for us to stay longer."

"Yes, let's," and gathering up her wraps, Patty rose to go.

They made their way out of the dark, crowded place, and finding the motor-car, they went straight home.

Once there, Patty flew to the nursery, and fairly snatching the baby from Nurse Winnie's arms, she held it close, and crooned loving little broken songs.

"You're all right," Mona said, laughing at her. "You've got your baby, safe and sound,—now just sit down there and enjoy her for a while."

This Patty gladly did, and Mona went in search of Farnsworth.

She finally found him, down in a distant garden, where he was looking after some planting matters.

"Come along o' me," she said, smiling at him.

Wonderingly Farnsworth looked up.

"Thought you girls went to the city," he said.

"We did,—also, we returned. Patty is in the nursery, and I want a few minutes' talk with you."

"O.K.," and the big man gave some parting instructions to a gardener and then went off with Mona. She led him to a nearby arbour, and commenced at once.

"You and I are old friends," she said, "and so I'm going to take an old friend's privilege and give you some advice, and also ask a few questions. First, who is Azalea?"

"My two or three times removed cousin."

"Are you sure?"

Farnsworth looked at her. "What do you mean, Mona?"

"What I say; are you sure?"

"Funny thing to ask. Well,—I am and—I'm not."

"Now, what do you mean?"

"I'll tell you." And then he told her how queer he thought it that Azalea had had no letters from her father since her arrival,—nor any letters at all from Horner's Corners.

"And she's so sly about it," he wound up; "why once she wrote a letter to herself, and pretended it was from her father!"

"I can't make it out," Mona mused. "If her father were dead, she'd have no reason to conceal the fact. Nor if he had remarried. And if he has done anything disgraceful—maybe that's it, Bill! Maybe he's in jail!"

"I've thought of that, Mona, and, of course, it's a possibility. That would explain her not getting letters, and her unwillingness to tell the reason. But,—somehow, it isn't very plausible. Why shouldn't she confide in me? I've begged her to,—and no matter what Uncle Thorpe may have done, it's no real reflection on Azalea."

"No; but now I've something to tell you about the girl."

Mona gave him a full account of the moving-picture play that she and Patty had visited, and told him, too, of Patty's distress over the pictures of Fleurette.

Farnsworth was greatly amazed, but, like Mona, he knew Patty could not be mistaken as to the identity of Fleurette.

"And I just thought," Mona went on, "that I'd tell you before Patty did,—for,—oh, well, this is my real reason,—Patty is so wrought up and so wild over the Fleurette matter that she can't judge Azalea fairly,—and I don't want to have injustice done to her at this stage of the game. For, Bill, Azalea has real talent,—real dramatic genius, I think, and if there's no reason against it,—except conventional ones,—I think she ought to be allowed to become a motion-picture actress. She's bound to make good,—she has the right sort of a face for the screen,—beautiful, mobile, expressive, and really, a speaking countenance. Why, she'd make fame and fortune, I'm positive."

"Oh, Mona! what utter rubbish! One of our people in the 'movies'!

Impossible!"

"I knew you'd say that! And I know Patty will say—oh, good Heavens, I don't know what Patty will say! But I do know this; she would have been sensible and would have felt just as I do about it, if it hadn't been for the Fleurette part of it. Before the baby appeared on the screen Patty was really delighted with Azalea. She was enthusiastic about her talent and her beauty,—really, Bill, she looked very beautiful in the pictures."

"Oh, Zaly is good-looking enough. But her taking our baby is—why, there's no term suitable! Where is Azalea!"

"I hope nowhere near, while you look like that!" and Mona laughed. "Your expression is positively murderous!"

"I feel almost that way! Just think, Mona, Azalea is my relative! I inflicted her on Patty, poor little Patty—"

"Oh, come now, Bill, don't overdo it! Azalea was most daring and even foolish, but not criminal. You know how she loves that child, and you know she wouldn't let harm come near her."

"But accidents might happen, for all Azalea's care and watchfulness—"

"I know that, but an accident might happen to Winnie when she takes Baby out in her coach!"

"Are you standing up for Azalea?"

"That's just what I'm doing! I'm glad you've got it through your head at last. And I ask this of you, old friend. Whatever you do or say to Azalea, think it well over beforehand. If you talk to Patty, as she is feeling now you'll both be ready to tar and feather poor Zaly; and, truly, she doesn't deserve it! Please, Bill, go slow,—and be just. Be generous if you can,—but at any rate, be just. That's all I ask. And you can't be just if you act on impulse,—so, go slow. Will you?"

"Yes, Mona,—there's my hand on it We're not often over-impulsive,—Patty and I,—but in this case we may be,—might have been,—if you hadn't warned me. You're a good girl, Mona, and I thank you for your foresight and real kindness,"

And so Farnsworth went in search of Patty with a resolve to try to reason out the matter with a fair consideration of all sides of it.

He found his wife and daughter in the nursery.

Patty had sent Winnie off, feeling that she must hold Fleurette in her arms for some time, in order to realise that she was safe from the whirling winds of that awful cyclone!

When Bill appeared, Patty began at once, and launched forth a full description of the picture play, and of Azalea's and Fleurette's parts in it.

Farnsworth sat looking at her, his blue eyes full of a contented admiration. To this simple-minded, big-hearted man, his wife and child represented the whole world. All he had, all he owned, he valued only for the pleasure it might mean to them.

"Darling," he said, as she finished the tale, "what do you think about it all?"

"Mona's been talking to you!" Patty cried, with sudden intuition.

"What! How do you know? You clair-voyant!"

"Of course I know," and Patty wagged a wise head at him. "First, because you're not sufficiently surprised,—she told you all about it! And second, because you're not furious at Azalea! Mona has talked you around to her way of thinking,—which is, that Azalea is a genius,—and that—"

"That Fleurette is another! Think of being on the screen at the tender age of six months!"

"You're a wretch! you're a monster! you're a—a—dromedary!"

Patty was feeling decidedly better about the whole matter. Having sat for nearly an hour, holding and fondling her idolised child, she realised that whatever Fleurette had gone through, she was safe now,—and that whatever was to be done to Azalea by way of punishment, was more Bill's affair than hers.

"You don't care two cents for your wonder-child! Your own little buttercup,—your daffy-downdilly baby!" she cried, in pretended reproof, and then Farnsworth took Fleurette and tossed her about until she squealed with glee.