arden. It seemed very old-fashioned, to
Chris--no neat folded writing paper, but large bold sheets covered in
Mr. Wicker's delicate handwriting lay on the open top, with several
goose-quill pens standing at the back in a penholder. Chris noticed
prints of sailing ships on the walls, and candlesticks holding candles
and candle snuffers on the desk, table, and mantelpiece. A closed
cupboard with carved doors stood at the far end of the room.

Once again Chris turned back to look for Mr. Wicker, and to his
astonishment, now saw him in the chair that he had thought empty a
moment before. Mr. Wicker, his elbows on the arms of the chair and his
fingertips touched lightly together, was watching Chris with interest
and amusement. When the boy caught sight of him, Mr. Wicker nodded,
smiling, and motioned Chris toward the other leather chair across from
him.

"Good morning, my boy," said the old man. "I trust you slept well?"

Chris slowly let himself down into the offered chair. "Oh yes, thank
you sir," he replied. "I don't even know how I got to bed."

Mr. Wicker made a sound that seemed to indicate that that did not
matter.

"And breakfast?" Mr. Wicker asked. "Becky fed you?"

"Yes sir. _And_ Mr. Cilley--he fed me too."

"Indeed?" Mr. Wicker's eyebrows went up in an inverted V above his
bright dark eyes. "Ned Cilley so early? Well, he is a loyal soul, is
Cilley. You shall know more of him."

[Illustration]

He fell silent, observing the boy sitting on the edge of the big
chair. Mr. Wicker looked, as if casually, at the clothes Chris now
wore and which fitted him as though made to his measure. What he saw
seemed to please the old man for he nodded his bald head and his
wrinkles multiplied themselves across his face in a way Chris took to
be his smile. At last he spoke again, and his voice was strangely
gentle and kind. So kind that the forlornness Chris had momentarily
forgotten at the mystery of his position, the puzzlement and lost
feeling that reclaimed him instantly should he allow himself to wonder
at how he could get back again into his own life and time, was
reawakened by the something he heard in Mr. Wicker's voice. The tears
gathered in his throat and he had to swallow and cough several times
before he could reply with any degree of clearness.

[Illustration]

"Feel? Well--all right, I guess, in a way. But there's a sort of
spinning in my head and my stomach if I try to figure any of this out.
I just don