“Ben Weatherstaff,” called out Mary, finding her breath.  She stood below him and called up to him with a sort of gasp.  “Ben Weatherstaff, it was the robin who showed me the way!”

Then it did seem as if Ben really would scramble down on her side of the wall, he was so outraged.

“Tha’ young bad ‘un!” he called down at her.  “Layin’ tha’ badness on a robin,—­not but what he’s impidint enow for anythin’.  Him showin’ thee th’ way!  Him!  Eh! tha’ young nowt,”—­she could see his next words burst out because he was overpowered by curiosity—­“however i’ this world did tha’ get in?”

“It was the robin who showed me the way,” she protested obstinately.  “He didn’t know he was doing it but he did.  And I can’t tell you from here while you’re shaking your fist at me.”

He stopped shaking his fist very suddenly at that very moment and his jaw actually dropped as he stared over her head at something he saw coming over the grass toward him.

At the first sound of his torrent of words Colin had been so surprised that he had only sat up and listened as if he were spellbound.  But in the midst of it he had recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to Dickon.

“Wheel me over there!” he commanded.  “Wheel me quite close and stop right in front of him!”

And this, if you please, this is what Ben Weatherstaff beheld and which made his jaw drop.  A wheeled chair with luxurious cushions and robes which came toward him looking rather like some sort of State Coach because a young Rajah leaned back in it with royal command in his great black-rimmed eyes and a thin white hand extended haughtily toward him.  And it stopped right under Ben Weatherstaff’s nose.  It was really no wonder his mouth dropped open.

“Do you know who I am?” demanded the Rajah.

How Ben Weatherstaff stared!  His red old eyes fixed themselves on what was before him as if he were seeing a ghost.  He gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down his throat and did not say a word.

“Do you know who I am?” demanded Colin still more imperiously.  “Answer!”

Ben Weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up and passed it over his eyes and over his forehead and then he did answer in a queer shaky voice.

“Who tha’ art?” he said.  “Aye, that I do—­wi’ tha’ mother’s eyes starin’ at me out o’ tha’ face.  Lord knows how tha’ come here.  But tha’rt th’ poor cripple.”

Colin forgot that he had ever had a back.  His face flushed scarlet and he sat bolt upright.

“I’m not a cripple!” he cried out furiously.  “I’m not!”

“He’s not!” cried Mary, almost shouting up the wall in her fierce indignation.  “He’s not got a lump as big as a pin!  I looked and there was none there—­not one!”

Ben Weatherstaff passed his hand over his forehead again and gazed as if he could never gaze enough.  His hand shook and his mouth shook and his voice shook.  He was an ignorant old man and a tactless old man and he could only remember the things he had heard.