Gwendolyn's mother now began to admire the poke, turning it around, at the same time tilting her head to one side,—this very like the Bird! She fingered the lace, and picked at the ribbon. Then, having viewed it from every angle, she opened it—as if to put it on.
There was a bounce and a piercing squeal. Then over the rim of the poke, with a thump as it hit the roadway, shot a small black-and-white pig.
She dropped the poke and sprang back, frightened. And as the porker cut away among the trees, she wheeled, caught sight of Gwendolyn, and suddenly opened her arms.
With a cry, Gwendolyn flung herself forward. No need now to fear harming an elegant dress, or roughing carefully arranged hair. "Moth-er!" She clasped her mother's neck, pressing a wet cheek against a cheek of satin.
"Oh, my baby! My baby!—Look at mother!"
"I am looking at you," answered Gwendolyn, half sobbing and half laughing. "I've looked at you for a long time. 'Cause I love you so I love you!"
The next moment the Man-Who-Makes-Faces dashed suddenly aside—to a nearby flower-bordered square of packed ground over which, blazing with lights, hung one huge tree. Under the tree was a high, broad bill-board, a squat stool, and two short-legged tables. The little old gentleman began to bang his furniture about excitedly.
"The tables are turned!" he shouted. "The tables are turned!"
"Of course the tables are turned," said Gwendolyn; "but what diff'rence'll that make?"
"Difference?" he repeated, tearing back; "it means that from now on everything's going to be exactly opposite to what it has been."