And then he knew that all day long that was the voice that he had been obeying when he went with the Merry Lad, and all day long that Self had been guiding him, and had been his ruler. And he himself had not been king of the Selves at all! Hazen slipped out into the night and ran as fast as he could. Nearly all that night he travelled without stopping, lest when day came the Merry Lad should overtake him. And when day did come, Hazen found himself far away, and passing the gate of a garden where, in the dawn, a youth was walking, reading a book. Him Hazen asked if he might come in the garden and rest for a little. This Bookman, who was pleasant and gentle and seemed half dreaming, welcomed him in, and gave him fruit to eat, and Hazen fell asleep in the arbour. When he awoke, the Bookman sat beside him, still reading, and seeing that the boy was awake, he began reading to him. He read a wonderful story about the elements of which everything in the world is made. He read that they are a great family of more than seventy, and so magically arranged that they make a music, done in octaves like the white keys of a piano. So that a man, if he is skilful, can play with these octaves as he might with octaves of sound, and with a thousand variations can make what he will, and almost play for himself a strain of the heavenly harmony in which things began. You see what wonderful music that would be? Hazen saw, and he could not listen enough. Until dark he was in the garden, eating fruit and listening; and the Bookman, seeing how he loved to listen, asked him if he would not stay on in the garden, and live there awhile. And without stopping to think whether his fortune lay that way, Hazen said that he would stay. Everything that the Bookman read to him was like magic, and it taught Hazen to do wonderful things. For example, he learned marvellous ways with sentences and with words. The Bookman showed him how to get inside of words, as if they had doors, so that Hazen could look from out the words that were spoken almost as if they had been little boxes, and he inside. The Bookman showed him how to look behind the words on a page and to see how different they seemed that way. He would say a sentence, and instantly it would become solid, and he would set it up, and Hazen could hang to it, or turn upon it like a turning-bar. It was all great sport. For sentences were not the only things with which he could juggle. He showed Hazen how to think a thing and have _that_ become solid in the air, too. Just as one might think, “Now I will plant my garden,” and presently there the garden is, solid; or, “Now I will get my lesson,” and presently, sure enough, there the lesson _is_, in one’s head, _so_ the Bookman taught Hazen to do with nearly all his thoughts, making many and many of them into actions or else into a solid, so that it could be handled as a garden can.