"Is that all?" said the centipede. "Fancy interrupting my breakfast on account of that boy. Well, one question at a time. We'll have the last one first; I'm in that sort of mood to-day." "How can I find the Urchin, then, please?" asked Fiona. "Well, you've been told _that_ already," said the centipede. "Haven't you a memory?" Fiona thought and thought, but could make nothing of it. "My friend the bookworm was there at the time," said the centipede, "and heard the shore lark tell you that the last man went up a hill. Very well. Go up a hill." "But that was for something quite different," said Fiona. "That was for my treasure. I am not thinking of any treasure now." "Silly of you, then," said the centipede. "I would be. Ever studied philosophy?" "No," said Fiona. "That's a pity," said the centipede. "Then you've never heard of Hegel and the unity of opposites? Black and white are only different aspects of the same thing, you know. And as soon as you begin to think about it, you see at once how sensible it is. Well, a treasure-hunt and a boy-hunt are only different aspects of a hunt, aren't they? Therefore they are the same thing. Therefore what does for one does for the other. Therefore you go up a hill. There's logic for you," and once more he swelled proudly. "Thank you very much," said Fiona. "And now will you please tell me where the Urchin is?" "Tell you!" exclaimed the centipede. "Why, it was you told me. You prophesied the whole thing." "I'm sure I don't remember it, then," said Fiona. "What's the matter with _you_," said the centipede, "is that you refuse to exert your intelligence, such as it is. You should take a lesson by me. You humans are all forgetting nowadays that the spoken word is an instrument of great power, and that once it is launched it goes on and on, and can work magic on its own account, quite independently of you. If you say a thing will happen, it frequently does happen." "But what did I say?" asked Fiona. "You told the Urchin that if he hurt the shore lark the Little People would take him. Well, they've taken him. That's all." And the centipede slid down on to the ground, and with something like a chuckle vanished. He had evidently learned from his philosophy to bear with resignation the misfortunes of others. But Fiona did not set off up a hill at once. After breakfast she went to the bookroom and spoke to her father. "I have found out where the Urchin is, daddy," she said. "He was carried off by the fairies." The Student showed no surprise. "You have not been long finding out, Fiona," he said. "I thought you had ways and means of your own." "But, daddy," she said, "I don't _really_ believe it, you know. It sounds so absurd nowadays. Do you believe it?" "I believe it, yes," said the Student. "I knew yesterday. Now that you know, I may talk to you about it, so far." "I don't know that I do really know," she said. "Things like that don't _really_ happen, do they? Whoever heard of it?"