when Rosa had been dragged forth, quite unmoved apparently,
placid as ever in her moonfaced contemplation of this comedy-
world with its ups and downs, Charlotte retired with her to the
window-seat, and there in the moonlight the two exchanged their
private confidences, leaving Harold to his exploration alone.

"Here's something with sharp corners," said Harold, presently.
"Must be Leotard, I think. Better let HIM go."

"Oh, yes, we can't save Leotard," assented Charlotte,
limply.

Poor old Leotard! I said nothing, of course; I was not on in
this piece. But, surely, had Leotard heard and rightly
understood all that was going on above him, he must have sent up
one feeble, strangled cry, one faint appeal to be rescued from
unfamiliar little Annies and retained for an audience certain to
appreciate and never unduly critical.

"Now I've got to the Noah's Ark," panted Harold, still groping
blindly.

"Try and shove the lid back a bit," said Charlotte, "and pull out
a dove or a zebra or a giraffe if there's one handy."

Harold toiled on with grunts and contortions, and presently
produced in triumph a small grey elephant and a large beetle with
a red stomach.

"They're jammed in too tight," he complained. "Can't get any