Dr. Craven said he couldn't be responsible for forcing him. Well, sir,
just without warning--not long after one of his worst tantrums he
suddenly insisted on being taken out every day by Miss Mary and Susan
Sowerby's boy Dickon that could push his chair. He took a fancy to both
Miss Mary and Dickon, and Dickon brought his tame animals, and, if
you'll credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until
night."

"How does he look?" was the next question.

"If he took his food natural, sir, you'd think he was putting on
flesh--but we're afraid it may be a sort of bloat. He laughs sometimes
in a queer way when he's alone with Miss Mary. He never used to laugh at
all. Dr. Craven is coming to see you at once, if you'll allow him. He
never was as puzzled in his life."

"Where is Master Colin now?" Mr. Craven asked.

"In the garden, sir. He's always in the garden--though not a human
creature is allowed to go near for fear they'll look at him."

Mr. Craven scarcely heard her last words.

"In the garden," he said, and after he had sent Mrs. Medlock away he
stood and repeated it again and again. "In the garden!"

He had to make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was
standing in and when he felt he was on earth again he turned and went
out of the room. He took his way, as Mary had done, through the door in
the shrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds. The fountain
was playing now and was encircled by beds of brilliant autumn flowers.
He crossed the lawn and turned into the Long Walk by the ivied walls. He
did not walk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on the path. He felt
as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long forsaken, and
he did not know why. As he drew near to it his step became still more
slow. He knew where the door was even though the ivy hung thick over
it--but he did not know exactly where it lay--that buried key.

So he stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment
after he had paused he started and listened--asking himself if he were
walking in a dream.

The ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs,
no human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years--and yet
inside the garden there were sounds. They were the sounds of running
scuffling feet seeming to chase round and round under the trees, they
were strange sounds of lowered suppressed voices--exclamations and
smothered joyous cries. It seemed actuall