"and I would not blame you. But now," he
announced, rising and turning toward the table, "you must have your
mind set at rest regarding your mother." He motioned for Chris to join
him. "You will need to know only once and they say--" he smiled down
at the boy beside him "--they say that seeing is believing, so you
shall see for yourself."

Mr. Wicker picked up the round-bellied silver pitcher and set it in
front of Chris.

"They say too," Mr. Wicker said scornfully, "that crystal balls are
the things to look into. Perfect tommyrot. This will do equally well.
Look and see."

Chris bent to peer at the polished silver side of the pitcher. At
first, it shone as no doubt it always did from Becky Boozer's powerful
rubbing. Then, as he watched, the rounded side of the pitcher misted
over, as if it had been filled with ice water. Next, the center of the
misted portion cleared away, and as it cleared a picture formed,
welling up into his sight as if from within the pitcher through the
silver of its sides.

What Chris saw was a hospital room. On a white bed lay his mother, and
beside her were his Aunt Rachel and a white-coated man Chris took to
be a doctor. Then, as if inside his head, for he was not conscious of
sound within the room which had grown deeply still, he heard voices
and words, and saw the lips of the doctor and his Aunt Rachel move.

The doctor said, "The turn has come. She will pull through, but she
will need watchful care."

"Oh, thank God! Thank God!" his Aunt Rachel cried, and covering her
face with her hands, she burst into tears.

The scene misted over once again and when it cleared, the pitcher was
merely a pitcher on a table in Mr. Wicker's room. Chris looked up at
the man who regarded him gravely.

"Is that a trick too?" he asked. "Just to make me stay?" he demanded
more loudly.

"No, son," the man replied, and his eyes confirmed his words. "That is
how it really is. My word of honor."

And to Chris's great surprise, all at once he felt tears on his cheeks
while simultaneously a great lightness invaded him, and a wild wish to
laugh.

Mr. Wicker poured him a glass of water and held it out.

"Drink this," he said. "All is well. You can be at peace. And now," he
went on in a brisker tone, replacing the glass Chris had drained, "let
us begin our talk."

CHAPTER 8

Chris returned happily to his chair and curled up in it as if he were
at home. Even Mr. Wicker's expression seemed to ha