nothing seemed studied or purposed, in which all the movements and attitudes appeared unconscious and to spring from a series of inspirations of the moment. By turns she was the London dancing-girl, the Spanish dancer with her castanets, the Russian who bounds and twirls, or, in the arms of Saint-Quentin, a barbaric creature dancing a languorous tango.

And every time all that she needed was just a movement, the slightest movement, which changed the hang of her shawl, or the way her hair was arranged, to become from head to foot a Spanish, or Russian, or English, or Argentine girl. And all the while she was an incomparable vision of grace and charm, of harmonious and healthy youth, of pleasure and modesty, of extreme but measured joy.

Castor and Pollux, bent over an old drum, beat with their fingers a muffled, rhythmical accompaniment. Speechless and motionless the spectators gazed and admired, spellbound by such a wealth of fantasy and the multitude of images which passed before their eyes. At the very moment when they were regarding her as a guttersnipe turning cartwheels, she suddenly appeared to them in the guise of a lady with a long train, flirting her fan and dancing the minuet. Was she a child or a woman? Was she under fifteen or over twenty?

She cut short the clamor of applause which burst forth when she came to a sudden stop, by springing on to the roof of the caravan, and crying, with an imperious gesture:

"Silence! The Captain is waking up!"

There was, behind the box, a long narrow basket, in the shape of a closed sentry-box. Raising it by one end, she half opened the cover and cried:

"Now, Captain Montfaucon, you've had a good sleep, haven't you? Come now, Captain, we're a bit behind-hand with our exercises. Make up for it, Captain!"

She opened the top of the basket wide and disclosed in a kind of cradle, very comfortable, a little boy of seven or eight, with golden curls and red cheeks, who yawned prodigiously. Only half awake, he stretched out his hands to Dorothy who clasped him to her bosom and kissed him very tenderly.

"Baron Saint-Quentin," she called out. "Catch hold of the Captain. Is his bread and jam ready? Captain Montfaucon will continue the performance by going through his drill."

Captain Montfaucon was the comedian of the troupe. Dressed in an old American uniform, his tunic dragged along the ground, and his 

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