Mr. Roach was not without curiosity.  He had never caught even a glimpse of the boy and had heard a dozen exaggerated stories about his uncanny looks and ways and his insane tempers.  The thing he had heard oftenest was that he might die at any moment and there had been numerous fanciful descriptions of a humped back and helpless limbs, given by people who had never seen him.

“Things are changing in this house, Mr. Roach,” said Mrs. Medlock, as she led him up the back staircase to the corridor on to which opened the hitherto mysterious chamber.

“Let’s hope they’re changing for the better, Mrs. Medlock,” he answered.

“They couldn’t well change for the worse,” she continued; “and queer as it all is there’s them as finds their duties made a lot easier to stand up under.  Don’t you be surprised, Mr. Roach, if you find yourself in the middle of a menagerie and Martha Sowerby’s Dickon more at home than you or me could ever be.”

There really was a sort of Magic about Dickon, as Mary always privately believed.  When Mr. Roach heard his name he smiled quite leniently.

“He’d be at home in Buckingham Palace or at the bottom of a coal mine,” he said.  “And yet it’s not impudence, either.  He’s just fine, is that lad.”

It was perhaps well he had been prepared or he might have been startled.  When the bedroom door was opened a large crow, which seemed quite at home perched on the high back of a carven chair, announced the entrance of a visitor by saying “Caw—­Caw” quite loudly.  In spite of Mrs. Medlock’s warning, Mr. Roach only just escaped being sufficiently undignified to jump backward.

The young Rajah was neither in bed nor on his sofa.  He was sitting in an armchair and a young lamb was standing by him shaking its tail in feeding-lamb fashion as Dickon knelt giving it milk from its bottle.  A squirrel was perched on Dickon’s bent back attentively nibbling a nut.  The little girl from India was sitting on a big footstool looking on.

“Here is Mr. Roach, Master Colin,” said Mrs. Medlock.

The young Rajah turned and looked his servitor over—­at least that was what the head gardener felt happened.

“Oh, you are Roach, are you?” he said.  “I sent for you to give you some very important orders.”

“Very good, sir,” answered Roach, wondering if he was to receive instructions to fell all the oaks in the park or to transform the orchards into water-gardens.

“I am going out in my chair this afternoon,” said Colin.  “If the fresh air agrees with me I may go out every day.  When I go, none of the gardeners are to be anywhere near the Long Walk by the garden walls.  No one is to be there.  I shall go out about two o’clock and every one must keep away until I send word that they may go back to their work.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Mr. Roach, much relieved to hear that the oaks might remain and that the orchards were safe.