“She long since came to the conclusion that she was mistaken in thinking it was her rose you threw away.”

It was growing dark.  The magician, who had come in long ago, wisely refrained from interrupting his guests, but went about putting away his tools and smiling to himself.  He was just lighting his lamp, when the shop door opened and Rosalind danced in, followed by her father.

“Mr. Pat!” exclaimed the magician.  “I heard you were here.  I wondered if you wouldn’t come to see me;” and he shook hinds as if he would never stop, while Rosalind circled around them merrily.

“Mr. Pat was one of my boys,” Morgan announced, as if it were a piece of news; adding, “We ought to make some tea.”

Rosalind clapped her hands, and nodded emphatically, “Let’s!” she cried.  “Why, there’s Uncle Allan!  Where did you come from?”

“I arrived at home a few hours ago and found nobody, so I started out in search of some one.  How are you, Patterson?” and the brothers clasped hands warmly.

“We are going to have tea, just as I did that day when I was so lonely, and—­here’s Miss Celia!” Rosalind paused in surprise.

Celia stood rather shyly in the door.  She would gladly have escaped if she could.

At Rosalind’s exclamation, Allan drew his brother forward.  “You remember Celia Fair, Patterson?” he said.

“Certainly I do.  She was about Rosalind’s age when I last saw her.”

“I remember you very well, Mr. Whittredge,” Celia said, as Patterson took both her hands, and looked into her glowing face.

“I haven’t been told anything, but—­” he glanced inquiringly at Allan, who nodded, smiling.

Rosalind caught sight of the ring on Celia’s finger.  “Oh,” she said, “was that what the will meant?  Are you going to wear it always?  I know Aunt Patricia would be glad!” and she hugged Celia joyfully.

That what followed was a childish performance cannot be denied, but alas for those who do not sometimes enjoy putting away grown-up dignity!  Rosalind had set her heart on having tea, and the magician was no less pleased at the idea.  He lighted up and filled the kettle, and she set the table, while the others looked on and laughed.

“I began being a boy again four months ago, and I like it.  How old are you?” Allan asked, passing Celia her cup.

“About six,” she answered.

“Then I am ten.”

“Then you are too little for me to play with,” said Rosalind.  “How old are you, father?”

“If Allan is ten I ought to be about sixteen, I suppose.”

“Here’s to the magician!” cried Allan, and they drank the cabinet-maker’s health right merrily.

“I drink to the ring which has come to its own again,” said Rosalind’s father; and so the fun went on.

Celia forgot her shyness and was a happy little girl once more.

“Let us drink to the Forest and all who have learned its secret,” she proposed.