rd at the end of the room, he
dropped a pellet into it and handed it to Chris.

"This will seem to smoke. Sniff the smoke and drink the liquid that
remains," he said.

[Illustration]

Chris did as he was told, and his momentary weakness vanished, leaving
him quieted and as strong as usual.

"There now," Mr. Wicker said, rubbing his hands with immense
satisfaction, "that was not so bad, was it? A peculiar feeling, but as
you come to do it more often and more quickly, the change will come
more rapidly and in time you will be scarcely aware of the sensations
at all." He looked at his pupil with pride. "You will do famously, my
boy. In another moment, when you have rested, we shall try another
one."

From that time, Chris became increasingly proficient, and as his
ability grew he began to find magic a wonderful game, which he and Mr.
Wicker played together. They played this new and unique form of
hide-and-seek, each one taking a new shape, turn by turn, as a
challenge to the other's powers of imagination and detection. Soon
Chris could turn himself into a limited number of things, for even Mr.
Wicker's magic had a limit: a singing bird in a cage, a part of the
pattern in the brocaded curtains, or a section of the design in the
Indian rug. The bluebottle fly or the goldfish became as easy as
saying "Eureka!" and on one occasion Chris turned himself into the
chair on which Mr. Wicker was sitting, and then walked across the room
on his four wooden legs carrying Mr. Wicker, who laughed more heartily
than he had in years at this display on the part of his student.

One day Chris wandered alone into the dusty shop. The time had nearly
come when he could walk about in early Georgetown and know that it
would still be the Georgetown of the past, and not the one into which
he had been born. This afternoon, a rainy one, he had tired of
changing himself into and out of objects. Mr. Wicker was busy, and
Becky Boozer had gone off to market accompanied by Ned Cilley. Chris
felt somewhat forlorn and lonely, as any boy might, and kicked an old
piece of wood ahead of him into the darkness of the shop.

Going up to the shop window, he stood with his hands thrust into his
pockets staring glumly first out the window and then, idly, at the
three objects he had once loved to contemplate, the _Mirabelle_ in her
bottle, the coil of heavy rope, and the carved wooden figure of the
Nubian boy.

Without interest at first, Chris stared at the