“But I haven't, Peter.” She was frightened by his earnestness, mistaking it for anger. “Did you never hear it in the cupboard in the bedroom--the one that was yours and mine?” She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. “You're joking.” “I'm not. I'm in dead seriousness.” The tears came. “I'm telling the truth. I never knew it till this moment.” “Whistle it again.” “I can't. I forget it.” As the children's legs grew stronger they went further afield, conquering new territory, exploring all kinds of dusty lanes and by-roads. They had turned off from Potter's Bar to Northaw, working round through Gough's Oak to Cheshunt when they were hailed by a freckled boy, about Peter's age, who sat astride a gate, playing a mouth-organ. “Hey, kids! Want to buy anything?” They jammed on the brakes and addressed him from the trike. “Got anything to sell?” “Nope. Just wanted to talk and had to say something.” “But who are you?” “I've lived in America and now I'm living here in Friday Lane. I've often seen you go by.” They looked round to discover Friday Lane; on every side was a sweep of country, rolling away in sun-dazzled fields and basking woodlands. “But--but it's lonely here.” “Yup. But it's lonelier where I come from. Nothing but Indians and prairie.” Even Indians didn't turn them aside; they were trying to unravel the mystery of Friday Lane. “Is this road the Lane?” “That's the Lane.” The boy pointed with a brown hand to a grass-grown field-track starting from the gate on which he sat and vanishing between a line of tall oaks--oaks which had probably been standing when the land was part of the royal chase. “But there aren't any houses.” The boy laughed. “Oh, aren't there? There's our house, right over there, out of sight.” “And who are you?” Kay and Peter asked together. “I'm Harry Arran and the house belongs to my brother. He's the Faun Man; I kind o' look after him and keep him straight. He's a wonder; you'd be lucky if you knew him.” “We'd like to know him. We'd both like to know him very much.” Again they spoke together. The boy thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed them. “Don't know so much about that. I'm very particular about my brother. I don't let him know just anybody.” He twisted round on the gate, turning his back on them, and re-commenced playing, giving them plainly to understand that their too eager interest in his family affairs had made conversation undesirable. CHAPTER XXV--THE HAPPY COTTAGE It was the way in which the boy had said “just anybody.” Peter gazed beyond the gate into the green mysterious depth of country--an Eden from which he was excluded by that hostile back. His eyes followed Friday Lane: it ran on, trees, sunshine and shadows, tremulous with the wings of birds, a canopied track, across fields, into the heart of wooded fairyland. What promises lay over there? A voice of ecstasy kept calling.