Kirk won the breach in the hedge and squeezed through. Then he was alone in the warm, green-smelling stillness of the trees. He found his way from the moss velvet under the pines to the paved path, and followed it, unhesitating, to the terrace before the house. On the shallow, sun-warmed steps he sat playing with fir-cones, fingering their scaly curves and sniffing their dry, brown fragrance. He swept a handful of them out of his lap and stood up, preparatory to questing further up the stone steps, to the house itself. But suddenly he stood quite still, for he knew that he was not alone in the garden. He knew, also, that it was neither Ken nor Felicia who stood looking at him. Had one of the fairy-tale heroes materialized, after all, and slipped out of magic coverts to walk with him? Rather uncertainly, he said, "Is somebody there?" His voice sounded very small in the outdoor silence. Suppose no one were there at all! How silly it would sound to be addressing a tree! There was a moment of stillness, and then a rather old voice said: "Considering that you are looking straight at me, that seems a somewhat foolish question." So there _was_ some one! Kirk said: "I can't see you, because I can't see anything." After a pause, the voice said, "Forgive me." But indeed, at first glance, the grave shadowed beauty of Kirk's eyes did not betray their blindness. "Are you one of the enchanted things, or a person?" Kirk inquired. "I might say, now, that I am enchanted," said the voice, drily. "I don't think I quite know what you mean," Kirk said. "You sound like a _Puck of Pook's Hill_ sort of person." "Nothing so exciting. Though Oak and Ash and Thorn do grow in my garden." "_Do_ they? I haven't found them. I knew it was a different place, ever so different from anything near--different from the other side of the hedge." "I am not so young as you," said the voice, "to stand about hatless on an April afternoon. Let us come in and sit on either side of the chimney-corner." And a long, dry, firm hand took Kirk's, and Kirk followed unhesitatingly where it led. The smoothness of old polished floors, a sense of height, absolute silence, a dry, aromatic smell--this was Kirk's impression as he crossed the threshold, walking carefully and softly, that he might not break the spellbound stillness of the house. Then came the familiar crackle of an open fire, and Kirk was piloted into the delicious cozy depths of a big chair beside the hearth. Creakings, as of another chair being pulled up, then a contented sigh, indicated that his host had sat down opposite him. "May I now ask your name?" the voice inquired. "I'm Kirkleigh Sturgis, at Applegate Farm," said Kirk. "' ... I s'pose you know, Miss Jean, That I'm Young Richard o' Taunton Dean....'" murmured the old gentleman. Kirk pricked up his ears instantly. "Phil sings that," he said delightedly. "I'm glad you know it. But you would."