there, nor
were the high walls and smokestacks of factories to be seen. The
warehouses were still there. They were the very same, for Chris could
make out the winch and tackle he had noticed as he opened the door.
But instead of factories, instead of the freeway, the river flickered
silver under the moon, and the hulls and masts of countless ships
broke the starry sky.

Flabbergasted and breathless, Chris was unaware that he had moved
closer to peer out the window in every direction. No electric signs,
no lamplit streets. Going as far as the wall to his left and leaning
forward, Chris looked up toward M Street.

Where the People's Drugstore had stood but a half-hour before, rose
the roofs of what was evidently an inn. A courtyard was sparsely lit
by a flaring torch or two, showing a swinging sign hung on a post. The
post was planted at the edge of what was now a broad and muddy road.
Even as Chris stared, not knowing whether to believe what his eyes saw
or not, there was a great sound of hoofs and of a cracking whip. A
coach with its top piled high with luggage stamped to a halt beside
the flagged courtyard. Ostlers ran out to hold the team of horses
steaming in the cool night air, and linkboys carrying torches and
orange lanterns ran out to help the travelers in. The coachman wore
knee breeches and a cockaded hat; two gentlemen got down from the
interior of the coach, stretching their cramped legs. Chris could
catch the shine as lantern glow touched the silver buckles on their
shoes. Their full-backed coats were slightly lifted, on the left, by
the tips of their rapiers, and a froth of white, lace or muslin, fell
from their necks onto satin waistcoats. They moved into the inn; the
coach rattled off to the stable. Before the window, farm carts rumbled
by, and instead of the crowded outline of Georgetown roofs, Chris
could see only a few chimneys against the stars, and many lofty trees.

"What do you see, boy?" asked the voice, so gentle, at his ear. Chris,
frightened and dumbfounded, shook his head.

"I will tell you," Mr. Wicker said. "My window has a power for those
few who are to see. You are looking back into the past, my boy. The
way it used to be."

Then the coldness, the strangeness, the fluttering of the light was
too much for Chris. Blackness descended on him as if a hood had been
dropped over his head, but before he was quite gone, he heard what he
thought was Mr. Wicker's voice saying kindly:

"You wi