Rachel scarcely knew why she thought him so old, except perhaps, that his figure seemed to be much bent. “Quite right. It’s the seventh,” he returned. “And what’s the name of your house?” Rachel looked round for Miss Moore, who strangely enough was still reading the inscription on the stone, and seemed to be paying no attention to the old man’s questions. “It’s called ‘The Seven Gables,’” she answered. “And where are you living now?” “At number seven Cranborough Terrace.” “And your name is _Rachel_. Do you read your Bible? How many years did Jacob work for his wife?” “He waited for her seven years. And her name was Rachel,” she exclaimed, forgetting to wonder why Miss Moore didn’t interfere, or join in a conversation which was becoming so interesting. “The _seventh_ of the month, and the Seven Gables, and _seven_ years for Rachel—and, why, there were _seven_ pigeons just outside as I came in, and this is the seventh room we’ve come to. Because I counted them. I don’t know why—but I did. What a lot of sevens.” “Can you think of any other sevens in your life?” asked the little old man, quietly. “Why, yes!” she answered, excitedly. “There are seven of us. All grown up except me. And I’m the seventh child, and the youngest!” “Seven is a magic number, you know,” said her companion, gravely. “Is it? Really and truly?” asked Rachel. “Oh, I do love hearing about magic things! But I thought there weren’t any now?” “On the contrary, the world is full of them. Take this, for instance.” He pointed to the broken marble block. “That’s a magic stone.” Rachel gazed at it reverently. “What does it do?” she asked almost in a whisper. “It’s a gate into the Past,” returned the old man in a dreamy voice. “But come now,” he went on more briskly, “can we remember any more sevens? You begin.” “There are seven days in the week,” said Rachel, trying to think, though she was longing to ask more about the magic stone. “There’s the seven-branched candlestick in the Bible,” the old man went on, promptly. “And the seven ears of corn and the seven thin cows that Pharaoh dreamt about,” returned Rachel, entering into the spirit of the game. “The story of the Seven Sleepers.” “The Seven Champions of Christendom,” added Rachel, who had just read the book. “Oh, there are thousands of sevens. I can think of lots more in a minute.” “It’s my turn now,” was the old man’s answer. “The Seven Wonders of the World.” “I never heard of them. What are they?” Rachel demanded. Again the old man pointed to the stone. “That gateway would lead you to one of them,” he said, quietly, “if, as I’m beginning to think, you’re one of the lucky children.” [Illustration: THE ROSETTA STONE] “Do lucky children have a lot to do with _seven_? Because if so, I ought to be one, oughtn’t I? It’s funny I never thought about it before, but there’s a seven in everything that has to do with me! And—”