When they reached home she sat on the garden bench and looked up at the griffins, and the fancy floated through her mind that it might be comfortable to be as unfeeling as they.

“O, dear!  I am afraid I am getting out of the Forest.  What shall I do?  Perhaps the magician could help me;” she clasped her hands at the thought.  Why not go to see him?  She knew the way.

“I will take my book to show him,” she said; and running to the house for it, forgetful of everything but her longing for sympathy, a few minutes later she flitted down the driveway and out of the gate.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

The magician makes tea.

                “—­If that love or gold
    Can in this place buy entertainment,
    Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed;
    Here’s a young maid with travel much oppress’d
    And faints for succour.”

The magician was at work in his small garden adjusting some wire netting for the sweet peas, while Curly Q. looked on with interest, and Crisscross finished his saucer of milk.

Rosalind came through the shop so softly that only the cat was aware of it.  He gazed at her in evident doubt whether to continue work on the rim of his saucer or take refuge on the fence.

“I should like to have a little house, and a dog and cat to live with me,” she thought, sitting down on the step to wait till she should be observed.  Yes, this was more like the Forest of Arden than any place she knew; her unhappiness seemed melting away in the peaceful atmosphere.

Crisscross decided she was not dangerous, and keeping an eye on her by way of precaution went on with his supper.  It was not long, however, before Curly Q. discovered her presence and came bounding to her side, with a sharp bark of welcome, then back to call his master’s attention.

“Why!  Why!” exclaimed the magician, holding up a pair of rather grimy hands.

There could be no doubt about his being glad to see Rosalind.  He asked how she was, over and over, and apologized for his hands, and smiled and nodded and indulged in all sorts of absurd gestures, which made her laugh so she couldn’t try her new accomplishment of talking on her fingers.  Directly he hurried into the house, where she could hear him washing his hands, and then he came out again with a teakettle, which he filled at the cistern, and carrying it back set it on a small oil stove, which he lighted.

“We’ll have some tea,” he said, sitting down beside her and asking again how she was.

Rosalind summoned all her learning and spelled out carefully, with the aid of some very dainty fingers, “I-am-lon—­”

“Lonesome?” repeated the magician.  “That is too bad.  Mr. Pat wouldn’t like that.”