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 have changed, and as a matter of fact it had, for the relief and portion of content that showed now in the boy's face, was reflected in some measure in that of the man. Before seating himself Mr. Wicker rang a silver bell on the tray by the pitcher. In a moment Becky Boozer knocked on the door and stuck her gigantic hat through the opening. "You rang, sir?" she inquired, the feathers and roses bobbing as cheerily as live things around the sweeping brim. "I did, Becky. It occurred to me," said Mr. Wicker, looking sideways at Chris, "that some hot chocolate for Master Christopher and coffee for me would not be amiss at this hour of the morning. And," he added, seeing the interested spark in the boy's eyes, "some of your delicious little cakes, perhaps?" "Most certainly," beamed Becky, "most certainly sir. I have the chocolate hot, as it so happens, and some cakes new-baked."