The unexpected visitor was a short, stout man with a large hooked nose. So completely engulfed was he in a great raccoon coat, that on first sight not one of them recognized him. When, however, he had removed that coat he was known at a glance. It was none other than the rather ugly, fat Jew who had taken Angelo’s name and address on that dismal day when they stood with their trunks before the old Blackmoore theatre.

“So, ho!” he exclaimed. Just as, Jeanne thought, a bear might should he enter a cave filled with rabbits.

“Fine place here.” He advanced toward the fire. “All very cheerful. Delightful company. May I sit down?”

Without waiting for an answer, he took a chair by the fire.
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An awkward silence followed. Petite Jeanne wiggled her bare toes; she had danced a little that evening. Swen pawed his blonde mane. Dan Baker stared dreamily into the fire.

The stranger’s eyes wandered from one to the other of them. They rested longest on Petite Jeanne. This made her uncomfortable.

“My name,” said the stranger, crashing the silence and indulging in a broad grin that completely transformed his face, “is Abraham Solomon. You’d say my parents left nothing to the imagination when they named me, now wouldn’t you?” He laughed uproariously.

“Well, they didn’t. And neither do I. Never have. Never will. What I want to know is, have you placed that light opera?” He turned an enquiring eye on Angelo.

“No, er—” the Italian youth stammered, “we—we haven’t.”

“Then,” said Solomon, “suppose you show it to me now.” He nodded toward the miniature stage at the back of the studio. “That is, as much of it as you can—first act at least.”

“Gladly.
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“On your toes!” Angelo smiled as his friends leaped from their places by the fire. Not one of them could guess what it meant. But, like Petite Jeanne, they believed more or less in fairies, goblins, and Santa Claus.

The performance they put on that night for the benefit of their audience of one, who sat like a Sphinx with his back to the fire, would have done credit to a broader stage.

When they had finished, the look on the stranger’s face had not changed.

Rising suddenly from his chair, he seemed about to depart without a word.

Petite Jeanne could have wept. She had hoped—what had she not hoped? And now—

But no. The man turned to Angelo. “Got a phone here?”

“Yonder.” Angelo pointed a trembling finger toward the corner. There was a strange glow on his face. Perhaps he read character better than Jeanne.

They heard Solomon call a number. Then:

“That you, Mister Mackenzie? Solomon speaking. Is the Junior Ballet there?
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“Spare ’em for an hour? In costume? Put on their fur coats and send ’em over.”

“Where?”

“What’s this number?” He whirled about to ask Angelo.

“Six—six—eight.”

“Six—six—eight on the boulevard. Send ’em in taxis. I’ll meet ’em at the sidewalk and pay the fares.

“Fifteen minutes? Great!”

Without a word he drew on his great coat and, slamming the door behind him, went thumping down the stairs.

“What—what—” Jeanne was too astonished for speech.

Angelo seized her hand. He drew their friends into the circle and pulled them into a wild roundo-rosa about the room.

“We’re made!” he exclaimed as, out of breath, he released them. “Abraham Solomon is the greatest genius of a manager and producer the world has ever known.
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“And the Junior Ballet! Oh, la la! You never have seen so many natural beauties before, and never will again. They are in training for Grand Opera. So you see they must be most beautiful and good.

“And to think,” he cried, almost in dismay, “they will be here, here in my studio in fifteen minutes! Every one of you give me a hand. Let’s put it in order.”

As she assisted in the re-arranging of the studio, Petite Jeanne found her head all awhirl. Half an hour before she had listened with a pain in her heart to Dan Baker discussing dry bread or a full meal over a small gold piece he had gained by begging in the snow. And now all this. How could she stand it? She wanted to run away.

“But I must not,” she told herself stoutly. “I must not! For this is our golden hour.”

Scarcely had she regained her composure when there came the sound of many pairs of feet ascending the stairs.

“They come,” Angelo whispered.

“Oh, my good Father of Love!” Petite Jeanne murmured faintly. “Is it for this that I have danced so long?”
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“It is for this.”

“Then—” In the girl’s eyes was a prayer. “Then, good Father, give me courage for one short hour.”

A moment later Angelo and Swen were assisting in the removal of fur coats from visions of loveliness that surpassed the most gorgeous butterflies. For this, you must know, was the Junior Ballet of the Grand Opera. Selected for beauty and grace, they would have shone in any ballroom of the land.

Some were slender, some plump. There were black eyes, brown and blue. There were heads of black, brown and golden hue. The costumes, too, were varied. All were of the filmiest of fabrics and all were gorgeous.

“See!” exclaimed the miracle-working Solomon, spreading his hands wide. “I have brought these here that I may see you dancing with them. I wish to know how you fit in; how you will appear before them all.”

“Ah, poor me!” The little French girl covered her face. “Who am I that I should dance before these so beautiful ones?”
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“Come!” said the fairy godfather who had suddenly arrived in their midst. “It i............