e--over the rail fence, across the stubbly
meadow. Kirk had been privately amassing landmarks. He had enough, he
considered, to venture forth alone to the garden of mystery. Felicia was
in the kitchen--not eating bread and honey, but reading a cook-book and
making think-lines in her forehead. Ken was in Asquam. Kirk stepped off
the door-stone; sharp to the right, along the wall of the house, then a
stretch in the open to the well, over the fence--and then nothing but
certain queer stones and the bare feel of the faint path that had
already been worn in the meadow.

Kirk won the breach in the hedge and squeezed through. Then he was alone
in the warm, green-smelling stillness of the trees. He found his way
from the moss velvet under the pines to the paved path, and followed
it, unhesitating, to the terrace before the house. On the shallow,
sun-warmed steps he sat playing with fir-cones, fingering their scaly
curves and sniffing their dry, brown fragrance. He swept a handful of
them out of his lap and stood up, preparatory to questing further up the
stone steps, to the house itself. But suddenly he stood quite still, for
he knew that he was not alone in the garden. He knew, also, that it was
neither Ken nor Felicia who stood looking at him. Had one of the
fairy-tale heroes materialized, after all, and slipped out of magic
coverts to walk with him? Rather uncertainly, he said, "Is somebody
there?"

His voice sounded very small in the outdoor silence. Suppose no one were
there at all! How silly it would sound to be addressing a tree! There
was a moment of stillness, and then a rather old voice said:

"Considering that you are looking straight at me, that seems a somewhat
foolish question."

So there _was_ some one! Kirk said:

"I can't see you, because I can't see anything."

After a pause, the voice said, "Forgive me." But indeed, at first
glance, the grave shadowed beauty of Kirk's eyes did not betray their
blindness.

"Are you one of the enchanted things, or a person?" Kirk inquired.

"I might say, now, that I am enchanted," said the voice, drily.

"I don't think I quite know what you mean," Kirk said. "You sound like a
_Puck of Pook's Hill_ sort of person."

"Nothing so exciting. Though Oak and Ash and Thorn do grow in my
garden."

"_Do_ they? I haven't found them. I knew it was a different place, ever
so different from anything near--different from the other side of the
hedge."

"I am not so young as you