'm not fretting, Mr. McPhearson. But the woman who owns that clock
won't sleep nights until she gets it home again."

"I don't blame her," was all McPhearson said.

"It's a good one, eh?"

"It's a dandy. I'd give my head for one like it. Genuine from start to
finish and listed in the book. It was made by Richard Parsons of Number
15 Goswell Street, London, somewhere about 1720--at least he is down as
a member of the Clockmakers' Company right along then. Pity he can't
know his handiwork is still doing duty. He'd be proud of it. Two hundred
years or more isn't a bad record for a clock."

"Two hundred years!" gasped Christopher involuntarily.

McPhearson peeped up over his microscope.

"This is Mr. Burton's son, McPhearson," put in Bailey.

"I know, I know. I've seen him round here ever since he could toddle.
Good morning, youngster. So you've come to explore the repairing
department, have you?"

The informality of the greeting was delightful to Christopher, and
immediately his heart went out to the old Scotchman.

"I guess so, yes," smiled he. "I didn't know I was going to though. It
just happened."

"It's not a bad happen, perhaps. Make yourself at home, laddie. Here's a
stool."

"I'd rather stand and watch you."

"But I sha'n't let you. It makes me nervous to have somebody hanging
over my shoulder and maybe jogging my elbow. If you're to stay you must
sit," was the brusque but not unkindly answer.

Somewhat crestfallen the boy slipped to the stool and for a few moments
remained immovable, watching the workman's busy fingers. How carefully
they moved--with what fascinating deftness and rapidity!

"I see you are not one to keep hitching and twiddling around," the
clockmaker presently remarked, with a twinkle. "We shall get on famously
together. I detest nervous people."

"Are you fixing the clock Mr. Bailey was asking about?" Christopher
ventured.

"Not just now, sonny. I am finishing up a simpler job. I shall go back
to her in a minute, however. You can't just tinker her at will as you do
common clocks. She has to be dreamed over."

"Dreamed over!" repeated Christopher, not a little puzzled.

"Aye, dreamed over! Well-nigh prayed over--if it comes to that,"
continued the old man gravely. "She isn't the sort that was turned out
in a factory, you see, along with hundreds of others of her kind. She's
an aristocrat and must be treated accordingly."

"Do you mean it--_she_--was made by hand?"

"Every