But she was not in her dressing-room, she was not
anywhere. For a moment he felt like crying. Then, for the second time that night, he pulled himself together. After all, there was no reason to be upset. He ought to feel very
pleased about the contract, however it had happened. It seemed that
his wife had left the stage in some queer way without being seen. Probably to increase the mystery she had gone straight home in her
stage dress, and had succeeded in dodging the stage-door keeper. It
was all very strange; but, of course, there must be some simple
explanation like that. He would take a cab home and find her there
already. There was a steak and onions for supper. As he drove along in the cab he became convinced that this theory was
right. Molly had always been clever, and this time she had certainly
succeeded in surprising everybody. At the door of his house he gave
the cabman a shilling for himself with a light heart. He could afford
it now. He ran up the steps cheerfully and opened the door. The
passage was quite dark, and he wondered why his wife hadn't lit the
gas. "Molly!" he cried, "Molly!" The small, weary-eyed servant came out of the kitchen on a savoury
wind of onions. "Hasn't missus come home with you, sir?" she said. The conjurer thrust his hand against the wall to steady himself, and
the pattern of the wall-paper seemed to burn his finger-tips. "Not here!" he gasped at the frightened girl. "Then where is she? Where is she?" "I don't know, sir," she began stuttering; but the conjurer turned
quickly and ran out of the house. Of course, his wife must be at the
theatre. It was absurd ever to have supposed that she could leave the
theatre in her stage dress unnoticed; and now she was probably
worrying because he had not waited for her. How foolish he had been. It was a quarter of an hour before he found a cab, and the theatre
was dark and empty when he got back to it. He knocked at the stage
door, and the night watchman opened it. "My wife?" he cried. "There's no one here now, sir," the man answered
respectfully, for he knew that a new star had risen that night. The conjurer leant against the doorpost faintly. "Take me up to the dressing-rooms," he said. "I want to see whether
she has been, there while I was away." The watchman led the way along the dark passages. "I shouldn't worry
if I were you, sir," he said. "She can't have gone far." He did not
know anything about it, but he wanted to be sympathetic. "God knows," the conjurer muttered, "I can't understand this at all." In the dressing-room Molly's clothes still lay neatly folded as she
had left them when they went on the stage that night, and when he saw
them his last hope left the conjurer, and a strange thought came into
his mind. "I should like to go down on the stage," he said, "and see if there
is anything to tell me of her." The night watchman looked at the conjurer as if he thought he was
mad, but he followed him down to the stage in silence. When he was
there the conjurer leaned forward suddenly, and his face was filled
with a wistful eagerness. "Molly!" he called, "Molly!" But the empty theatre gave him nothing but echoes in reply. The Poet's Allegory

                                  I

The boy came into the town at six o'clock in the morning, but the
baker at the corner of the first street was up, as is the way of
bakers, and when he saw the boy passing, he hailed him with a jolly
shout. "Hullo, boy! What are you after?" "I'm going about my business," the boy said pertly. "And what might that be, young fellow?" "I might be a good tinker, and worship god Pan, or I might grind
scissors as sharp as the noses of bakers. But, as a matter of fact,
I'm a piper, not a rat-catcher, you understand, but just a simple
singer of sad songs, and a mad singer of merry ones." "Oh," said the baker dully, for he had hoped the boy was in search of
work. "Then I suppose you have a message." "I sing songs," the boy said emphatically. "I don't run errands
for anyone save it be for the fairies." "Well, then, you have come to tell us that we are bad, that our lives
are corrupt and our homes sordid. Nowadays there's money in that if
you can do it well." "Your wit gets up too early in the morning for me, baker," said the
boy. "I tell you I sing songs." "Aye, I know, but there's something in them, I hope. Perhaps you
bring news. They're not so popular as the other sort, but still, as
long as it's bad news--"

"Is it the flour that has changed his brains to dough, or the heat of
the oven that has made them like dead grass?" "But you must have some news----?" "News! It's a fine morning of summer, and I saw a kingfisher across
the watermeadows coming along. Oh, and there's a cuckoo back in the
fir plantation, singing with a May voice. It must have been asleep
all these months." "But, my dear boy, these things happen every day. Are there no
battles or earthquakes or famines in the world? Has no man
murdered his wife or robbed his neighbour? Is no one oppressed by
tyrants or lied to by their officers." The boy shrugged his shoulders. "I hope not," he said. "But if it were so, and I knew, I should not
tell you. I don't want to make you unhappy." "But of what use are you then, if it be not to rouse in us the
discontent that is alone divine? Would you have me go fat and happy,
listening to your babble of kingfishers and cuckoos, while my
brothers and sisters in the world are starving?" The boy was silent for a moment. "I give my songs to the poor for nothing," he said slowly. "Certainly
they are not much use to empty bellies, but they are all I have to
give. And I take it, since you speak so feelingly, that you, too, do
your best. And these others, these people who must be reminded hourly
to throw their crusts out of window for the poor--would you have me
sing to them? They must be told that life is evil, and I find it
good; that men and women are wretched, and I find them happy; that
food and cleanliness, order and knowledge are the essence of
content while I only ask for love. Would you have me lie to cheat
mean folk out of their scraps?" The baker scratched his head in astonishment. "Certainly you are very mad," he said. "But you won't get much money
in this town with that sort of talk. You had better come in and have
breakfast with me." "But why do you ask me?" said the boy, in surprise. "Well, you have a decent, honest sort of face, although your tongue
is disordered." "I had rather it had been because you liked my songs," said the boy,
and he went in to breakfast with the baker. II

Over his breakfast the boy talked wisely on art, as is the wont of
young singers, and afterwards he went on his way down the street. "It's a great pity," said the baker; "he seems a decent young chap." "He has nice eyes," said the baker's wife. As the boy passed down the street he frowned a little. "What is the matter with them?" he wondered. "They're pleasant people
enough, and yet they did not want to hear my songs."