Fiona only smiled, the wise smile of perfect understanding.

That morning the doctor was hastily summoned with the news that Jeconiah was awake. The nurse met him in the pa.s.sage, wide-eyed and rather frightened.

"He's so strange," she said.

"Tut, tut," said the doctor; "told you he might wake like that. Kind of change in personality? Just so. Often happens. Seldom permanent though. What's he done?"

"Well, doctor, of course we all know Mr. Johnson's reputation," said the nurse. "He's thanked me three times, and hoped I didn't tire myself; and he had all the servants up and said he'd see their wages were raised, and the cook gave notice on the spot because she said she didn't like practical jokes; and he says he wants to go out and gather b.u.t.tercups and daisies, and play with the little frogs; and he's sent for some old gun that he says he's got to buy for his nephew; and he hasn't opened any of the telegrams that have been waiting for him; he says he mayn't attend to business till he has learnt a fairy tale, and he's had the library ransacked, and he's tearing his hair because there's no such thing in it."

"Oh, well," said the doctor, "we must just have patience, nurse. I expected something of the sort. Just humor him; if you can't find a fairy tale, try him with a history book; he'll never know the difference; and I'll send him up a nice soothing mixture. Very interesting case; ve-ry interesting."

And the doctor, calling up his best professional smile, bustled into Jeconiah's room.

It was the same afternoon, a still afternoon of Indian summer, that the old hawker, accompanied again by the black terrier, was going down the sh.o.r.e road. He must have had business at the cottage on the beach.

But his business was probably not urgent; for he stopped to watch with interest a group on the sh.o.r.e. It consisted of Jeconiah and the Urchin, and they sat on the little patch of sand at the mouth of the burn. The Urchin had across his knees the rusty old gun bought for him by Jeconiah, who had nevertheless exacted the doubloon from him in exchange. He fingered the gun lovingly, while he gazed with undisguised impatience at the proceedings of his uncle. Jeconiah's coat lay on the grounds beside a sheaf of unopened telegrams, and he was putting the finishing touches to a n.o.ble castle of sand; its drawbridge was supported by his double watch chain, and its turrets bore a suspicious resemblance in contour to the inside of his hat. He patted his work and gazed at it with pride.

"Fine, isn't it?" he said.

"You'd better hurry up with that fairy tale," said the boy. "If you've got to, you've got to, you know; and you won't keep me much once I get some cartridges."

Jeconiah began to look alarmed.

"But I haven't found one yet," he said, and glanced anxiously at the pile of telegrams.

"Make one up, then," said the boy. "Anybody can do it."

Thus adjured, Jeconiah started.

"Once upon a time there was a very grizzly old bear, and he lived in a beautiful place called Capel Court, and he used to hunt the wild bulls and the stags and the poor little guinea pigs that abounded in that salubrious locality. And there were two young ladies there, called Cora and Dora. . . ."

"Are those the princesses?" asked the boy.

"No, I think not," said Jeconiah. "They were of quite ordinary stock.

Well, the old bear thought they were too high and mighty, and that he would like to take them down a point or two. . . ."

"Oh, this won't do," said the Urchin rudely. "This isn't a _real_ fairy tale at all. You must do something better than that."

The wretched Jeconiah groaned, and looked again at his telegrams. Then he started afresh.

"Once upon a time there was a great dragon with seven heads, and he ate seven princesses every day for dinner. . . ."

"That's better," said the boy, encouragingly, as he settled himself to listen.

The old hawker resumed his walk.

"They haven't made a very good job of him, after all," he remarked aloud, apparently to the terrier. "But I expect that sort is incurable."

Was it a flicker of sunlight? Or did the black terrier really wink?

CHAPTER VIII

FIONA FINDS HER TREASURE

And Fiona?

Fiona sat on the hearthrug in the bookroom, and told her father the whole story from beginning to end, as it has been told here. And sometimes he asked a question, and sometimes he said, "Yes, that would be so," and sometimes he stroked her hair and said nothing. And when she had ended, he said, "So you never found your own treasure after all, Fiona?"

She said, "I suppose I can have it now, if I go back."

"Do you think you will go back?" he asked.

She replied with another question.

"Have you found out what my treasure is, daddy?"

"I believe I could guess," he answered. "But you have found a good many things already, apart from treasure, haven't you, little daughter?"

She sat silent and looked into the fire.

"I suppose I have," she said.

"We won't enumerate them," said the Student. "It spoils things entirely, sometimes, to put them into words. But I will tell you something an old writer once said. He was talking of that particular kind of treasure which men call Truth; and he said that if he were offered Truth itself on the one hand, and the everlasting search for it on the other hand, he would choose the search. I expect you can understand that now; for you have seen what has happened to you over your own search."

"I think I can understand," said Fiona. "I must be growing older, daddy."

"You'll be too old soon to go back to Fairyland at all, little daughter," said the Student. "If you are going, you will have to go at once."

"What do you think, daddy?" she questioned.

"I can only tell you that, in my case, I went back," the Student answered.

"Why, daddy, have you been in Fairyland too?" cried Fiona. "And you never told me."

"Yes," said the Student. "Even a musty old scholar like myself was young once, you know," and he looked into the fire with eyes which seemed to see things very, very far away. "It was not quite the same as the Fairyland you have been in, Fiona; but we called it Fairyland."

"Can't you come back with me if I go daddy?" asked the girl.

"I'm too old now, little daughter," he said. "For good or for bad, I could never find the way again. I can only see it now through your eyes. I'll come as far as the door with you, and that's all that an old man can do. I suppose you know where the door is?"

"I never felt there was any doubt," said Fiona.