So he stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment after he had paused he started and listened—­asking himself if he were walking in a dream.

The ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs, no human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years—­and yet inside the garden there were sounds.  They were the sounds of running scuffling feet seeming to chase round and round under the trees, they were strange sounds of lowered suppressed voices—­exclamations and smothered joyous cries.  It seemed actually like the laughter of young things, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying not to be heard but who in a moment or so—­as their excitement mounted—­would burst forth.  What in heaven’s name was he dreaming of—­what in heaven’s name did he hear?  Was he losing his reason and thinking he heard things which were not for human ears?  Was it that the far clear voice had meant?

And then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds forgot to hush themselves.  The feet ran faster and faster—­they were nearing the garden door—­there was quick strong young breathing and a wild outbreak of laughing shouts which could not be contained—­and the door in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back, and a boy burst through it at full speed and, without seeing the outsider, dashed almost into his arms.

Mr. Craven had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a result of his unseeing dash against him, and when he held him away to look at him in amazement at his being there he truly gasped for breath.

He was a tall boy and a handsome one.  He was glowing with life and his running had sent splendid color leaping to his face.  He threw the thick hair back from his forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes—­eyes full of boyish laughter and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe.  It was the eyes which made Mr. Craven gasp for breath.

“Who—­What?  Who!” he stammered.

This was not what Colin had expected—­this was not what he had planned.  He had never thought of such a meeting.  And yet to come dashing out—­winning a race—­perhaps it was even better.  He drew himself up to his very tallest.  Mary, who had been running with him and had dashed through the door too, believed that he managed to make himself look taller than he had ever looked before—­inches taller.

“Father,” he said, “I’m Colin.  You can’t believe it.  I scarcely can myself.  I’m Colin.”

Like Mrs. Medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he said hurriedly: 

“In the garden!  In the garden!”

“Yes,” hurried on Colin.  “It was the garden that did it—­and Mary and Dickon and the creatures—­and the Magic.  No one knows.  We kept it to tell you when you came.  I’m well, I can beat Mary in a race.  I’m going to be an athlete.”

He said it all so like a healthy boy—­his face flushed, his words tumbling over each other in his eagerness—­that Mr. Craven’s soul shook with unbelieving joy.