They crept to the door. At the threshold they paused; Aunt Beatrice was speaking again. "As there are no taxis," she was saying, "Mr. Bisselthwaite, the milkman, has very kindly consented to pick you up at eleven forty-five at the end of the lane. Your train leaves at twelve."

Gently, gently they closed the door.

1O FAREWELL.

The milkman was late. "Perhaps," said Carey, as they stood in the gra.s.s by the side of the lane, "we could just run in and say good-by to Miss Price."

"One of us had better stay," said Charles, "to look after the bags and wait for the milk cart. You and Paul go."

Carey hesitated. "All right," she said, after a moment. "And you can come along in the cart."

Miss Price was in her front garden. When she saw Carey and Paul in coats and hats, she looked surprised. She set down her wheelbarrow and waited between the shafts. Carey ran up to her.

"Miss Price," she said, "we're going."

"Going where?" asked Miss Price. Her face looked tired and rather pale except for the sunburn on her long thin nose.

"Home. To London."

"Oh, dear," said Miss Price. She looked distressed. She began to pull off her gardening gloves.

"It was the bed and the water and everything. We're being sent away. But we did keep our promise, Miss Price. We never told about you."

"Oh, dear," said Miss Price again. She sat down on the edge of the wheelbarrow.

Paul, very subdued, began to collect dead flower heads from the rubbish.

"We came to say good-by," went on Carey.

"Oh, dear," said Miss Price for the third time. "I feel very much to blame. We shouldn't have gone to that island, but," she went on, "I thought a nice quiet day, a breath of sea air . . ." She paused.

"Look," Paul broke in. "A pink cabbage."

Carey looked down. There it lay among the rubbish, Miss Price's giant rosebud!

"Oh, Miss Price-" exclaimed Carey, staring at it. It must have weighed a couple of pounds.

Miss Price colored. "I have done a lot of thinking since yesterday, Carey. I've been thinking about last night and what you said about the flower show-" She glanced at Paul as if to include him in her observations. "I've been thinking that magic may be a kind of cheating. It looks good to start with, but perhaps it doesn't bring good results in the end."

Paul frowned. "I've had wonderful results from cheating," he said stubbornly.

"I don't suppose I'll give it up altogether," went on Miss Price, ignoring Paul and holding on to her gentle smile. "But I thought I'd try to give it up for a while."

They were all silent. "Oh, Miss Price," murmured Carey rather sadly. She shared Paul's disappointment.

"It gets such a hold on one," said Miss Price.

There was an awful pause. Paul had turned back the leaves of the pink cabbage. A sweet dry smell of sun-warmed deadness rose from the barrow.

"I have decided," went on Miss Price, watching Paul's fingers, "in future to regard witchcraft-not as a hobby" -she paused-"but as a weakness."

"Darling Miss Price," cried Carey suddenly, "you're such a good sport." She flung her arms round Miss Price's neck. She felt the wetness of a tear on Miss Price's long nose. "Thank you, Miss Price, for everything, even the cannibals."

It was a moving moment. Paul looked glum, a little bewildered. He had an uneasy feeling that Miss Price was turning over a new leaf before he had finished with the old one. It was almost a relief when the milk cart rattled up to the gate. Miss Price wiped her eyes.

"Now you must go," she said, straightening her hat as Charles jumped down off the milk cart to shake her hand. She tried to smile. "Good luck, dear children, and good-by. Keep your warm hearts, your gentleness, and your courage. These will do," said Miss Price, sniffing audibly, "just as well as magic."

She turned away hurriedly; squaring her shoulders, she picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow and trundled it off toward the rubbish heap.

The milkman cracked his whip, and they clattered away amid the cheerful jangle of empty cans.

"She won't keep it up," said Paul, who, un.o.bserved, had edged himself into the place nearest the pony.

In the train, Charles frowned through the narrow square of window. Carey had told him of the conversation with Miss Price.

"Magic may be just a weakness," he said, "but it's better than some weaknesses."

"I know," agreed Carey.

"If we still had the bed, I think I'd use it," Charles went on. "Sometimes."

"Yes," said Carey. "Just sometimes."

"The bed wasn't magic," put in Paul consolingly. "It was only the bed-k.n.o.b that was magic."

"Well, it's the same thing," said Carey, turning irritably from Paul, who, kneeling up on his seat, was breathing in her face. "One thing's no good without the other."

"Couldn't you use a magic bed-k.n.o.b on another bed the same make?"

"Oh, I don't know, Paul." Carey edged away from him, closer to the window. "What's the good of talking about it if we haven't got either. Do sit down properly!"

Paul meekly put his legs down, so that they dangled just above the floor. He leaned back, sucking his cheeks in. One hand was in his pocket, fidgeting. He looked worried. "But," he protested, after some moments of silent thought, "I did bring the bed-k.n.o.b."

II.

BONFIRES AND BROOMSTICKS.

LOST AND FOUND.

Two years went by. Aunt Beatrice died and the house was sold, so they did not go back to Much Frensham. The memory of that summer became a secret thing, seldom spoken of-and never with Paul. "He might tell, you see," Carey pointed out. "We must let him just think it's a dream. . . ."

Sometimes in company Paul could become a menace. "When we were in prison-" he would exclaim, and Carey, blushing, would correct him quickly with "When you dreamed you were in prison, Paul!" After a while, Paul grew confused; he would say-one eye on Carey-things like: "Yesterday, when I dreamed I had an egg for tea-"

"But you did have an egg for tea," his mother would point out.

"Oh," he would say, becoming suddenly thoughtful, "and did I see the cannon b.a.l.l.s?"

"What cannon b.a.l.l.s?"

"Cannibals, he means," Carey would explain quickly. "No, you didn't, Paul. You dreamed those," and would quickly change the subject.

Even to Charles, the thing became unreal. Back among his school friends, just the word became embarra.s.sing. Magic? One didn't . . . one couldn't ... I mean, the whole thing was rather. . . . He took up boxing, started on First Year Latin, and began a stamp collection. He pushed other events to the back of his mind and pretended they had not happened.

One cannot do this successfully. It seldom works; sooner or later Fate takes a hand, and back comes the past like a bombsh.e.l.l. It came to Carey and Charles, some two years later, on a cold, dull winter's morning, in the form of a daily paper. It came in innocently with the bacon and porridge, disguised as the London Times.

"Look," said Carey faintly. She was leaning over, spoon in hand, reading the personal column.

Charles glanced up. They were alone in the room at the time. Mrs. Wilson, their mother, had left for her office, and Paul was not yet down. There was a strange expression on Carey's face; she seemed more than a little scared. "What's the matter?" asked Charles.

Carey pushed the paper across. "See," she said, pointing with her finger.

He did not see at first. "Mink coat," he read aloud, "scarcely worn . . ."

"No, below that."

"Pale hands, my heart is singing . . ."

"No, here." She leaned over him, her braids snaking on the table. "Lady with small house . . ."

"Lady with small house in country willing accommodate two school children summer holidays. Moderate terms. Highest references. Reply E. Price, Much Frensham . . ." Charles's voice grew slower. ". . . Beds."

There was silence.

LOST AND FOUND99.

"Now do you see?" asked Carey.

Charles nodded. They were silent again.

"Little Alders?" said Charles after a moment. "Was that the name of the house?"

"Something like that. I can't quite remember."

"There must be lots of Prices in Much Frensham," protested Charles.

"But E. Price," said Carey. "Miss Price's name was Eglan- tine."

"Was it?" said Charles. He, too, had become a shade paler.

"Yes. Eglantine Price," repeated Carey firmly.

They stared at each other without speaking. Then once more they leaned over the paper.

"It says only two children," Charles pointed out.

"Oh, Paul can sleep anywhere, if she knows it's us, don't you think?"

Both minds were working furiously. With a mother who was tied to her office, there was always this problem of the long summer holiday. Last year, they had gone to a farm in Cornwall and had enjoyed it very much; there seemed no reason why they should not be sent there again.

"But Much Frensham's much nearer London," Carey pointed out. "Mother could get down to see us. And when we tell her that Miss Price was a friend of Aunt Beatrice's-"

"Not a friend exactly."

"Yes. Remember the peaches?"

Charles was silent. "What about the bed-k.n.o.b?" he said at last.

"What about it?"

"Where is it?"

Carey's face fell. "I don't know." She thought a moment. "It must be somewhere."

"Why? Heaps of things in this house aren't anywhere. I'd as soon go to Cornwall," Charles went on, "as go to Miss Price's without the bed-k.n.o.b."

"Well, I would too," admitted Carey-at least there were beaches in Cornwall . . . and caves, and rock-climbing. She thought a moment. "Once it was in the knife box."

"It isn't now."

"Or was it the tool drawer?"

"Yes, it was in the tool drawer for ages. After they redid the nursery cupboards, remember? It isn't now."

"I don't know," mused Carey. "I've seen it somewhere- in a box or something. There were some old door handles, and some screws . . ."

"Old door handles?" exclaimed Charles. "I know where those are."

"Where?"

Charles jumped to his feet. "That canvas bag on a nail in the broom cupboard. . ."

That was just where it was-a little rusty and spotted with whitewash. They took it as a "sign."

Mrs. Wilson was puzzled. Bedfordshire instead of Cornwall? And why this undercurrent of excitement about so very zm-exciting a maiden lady? There was more in this, she suspected uneasily, than appeared on the surface. But to all her questions, they gave the most satisfactory replies. Miss Price, as a holiday chaperone, sounded almost too good to be true. Letters were exchanged and a meeting was arranged. The children mooned about in a torment of suspense. They need not have worried, however. Over tea and cakes with Miss Price at Fuller's, their mother's fears were laid. Although unable to discover the secret of Miss Price's peculiar charm, Mrs. Wilson found her just as Carey had described her-quiet, reserved, a little fussy. Dignified but friendly, she expressed a guarded fondness for the children and her willingness to accommodate all three, provided they would be careful of her belongings and would help a little in the house.

"How wonderful . . . how wonderful!" sang Carey when she heard the news. She went on singing and dancing about the room, and even Charles felt impelled to try a handstand. Only Paul remained stolid. He sat on the hearth rug, watching them curiously.

"Will we sleep there?" he asked his mother, at last.

Mrs. Wilson turned to look at him-too bland, his face seemed, almost too candid. "Yes, Paul," she said, in a puzzled voice, "of course you will sleep there. . . ." Again, for some reason, she began to feel uneasy. "Why?"

Paul began to smile. It was a slow smile, which spread gradually over all his face. He turned away and began plucking at the carpet. "Oh, nothing," he said lightly.

AND LOST AGAIN.

When they arrived at the station, it looked at first as though there was no one to meet them. Then Carey saw the milk cart on the far side of the level crossing. "Come on," she said, "there's Mr. Bisselthwaite." She was surprised when the name came so easily to her tongue. Mr. Bisselthwaite the milkman ... of course.

"She ordered an extra two pints," Mr. Bisselthwaite told them, as they climbed on the cart. "And she said it was you. Growed, hasn't he?" he added, nodding at Paul.