“I once heard an officer in India tell my mother that there were fakirs who said words over and over thousands of times,” said Mary.

“I’ve heard Jem Fettleworth’s wife say th’ same thing over thousands o’ times—­callin’ Jem a drunken brute,” said Ben Weatherstaff dryly.  “Summat allus come o’ that, sure enough.  He gave her a good hidin’ an’ went to th’ Blue Lion an’ got as drunk as a lord.”

Colin drew his brows together and thought a few minutes.  Then he cheered up.

“Well,” he said, “you see something did come of it.  She used the wrong Magic until she made him beat her.  If she’d used the right Magic and had said something nice perhaps he wouldn’t have got as drunk as a lord and perhaps—­perhaps he might have bought her a new bonnet.”

Ben Weatherstaff chuckled and there was shrewd admiration in his little old eyes.

“Tha’rt a clever lad as well as a straight-legged one, Mester Colin,” he said.  “Next time I see Bess Fettleworth I’ll give her a bit of a hint o’ what Magic will do for her.  She’d be rare an’ pleased if th’ sinetifik ‘speriment worked—­an’ so ’ud Jem.”

Dickon had stood listening to the lecture, his round eyes shining with curious delight.  Nut and Shell were on his shoulders and he held a long-eared white rabbit in his arm and stroked and stroked it softly while it laid its ears along its back and enjoyed itself.

“Do you think the experiment will work?” Colin asked him, wondering what he was thinking.  He so often wondered what Dickon was thinking when he saw him looking at him or at one of his “creatures” with his happy wide smile.

He smiled now and his smile was wider than usual.

“Aye,” he answered, “that I do.  It’ll work same as th’ seeds do when th’ sun shines on ’em.  It’ll work for sure.  Shall us begin it now?”

Colin was delighted and so was Mary.  Fired by recollections of fakirs and devotees in illustrations Colin suggested that they should all sit cross-legged under the tree which made a canopy.

“It will be like sitting in a sort of temple,” said Colin.  “I’m rather tired and I want to sit down.”

“Eh!” said Dickon, “tha’ musn’t begin by sayin’ tha’rt tired.  Tha’ might spoil th’ Magic.”

Colin turned and looked at him—­into his innocent round eyes.

“That’s true,” he said slowly.  “I must only think of the Magic.”

It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle.  Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting.  Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called “agen’ prayer-meetin’s” but this being the Rajah’s affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist.  Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured.  Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer’s signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire.