Colin put out his hand and laid it on his father’s arm.

“Aren’t you glad, Father?” he ended.

“Aren’t you glad?  I’m going to live forever and ever and ever!”

Mr. Craven put his hands on both the boy’s shoulders and held him still.  He knew he dared not even try to speak for a moment.

“Take me into the garden, my boy,” he said at last.  “And tell me all about it.”

And so they led him in.

The place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet and on every side were sheaves of late lilies standing together—­lilies which were white or white and ruby.  He remembered well when the first of them had been planted that just at this season of the year their late glories should reveal themselves.  Late roses climbed and hung and clustered and the sunshine deepening the hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one stood in an embowered temple of gold.  The newcomer stood silent just as the children had done when they came into its grayness.  He looked round and round.

“I thought it would be dead,” he said.

“Mary thought so at first,” said Colin.  “But it came alive.”

Then they sat down under their tree—­all but Colin, who wanted to stand while he told the story.

It was the strangest thing he had ever heard, Archibald Craven thought, as it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion.  Mystery and Magic and wild creatures, the weird midnight meeting—­the coming of the spring—­the passion of insulted pride which had dragged the young Rajah to his feet to defy old Ben Weatherstaff to his face.  The odd companionship, the play acting, the great secret so carefully kept.  The listener laughed until tears came into his eyes and sometimes tears came into his eyes when he was not laughing.  The Athlete, the Lecturer, the Scientific Discoverer was a laughable, lovable, healthy young human thing.

“Now,” he said at the end of the story, “it need not be a secret any more.  I dare say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see me—­but I am never going to get into the chair again.  I shall walk back with you, Father—­to the house.”

* * * * *

Ben Weatherstaff’s duties rarely took him away from the gardens, but on this occasion he made an excuse to carry some vegetables to the kitchen and being invited into the servants’ hall by Mrs. Medlock to drink a glass of beer he was on the spot—­as he had hoped to be—­when the most dramatic event Misselthwaite Manor had seen during the present generation actually took place.

One of the windows looking upon the courtyard gave also a glimpse of the lawn.  Mrs. Medlock, knowing Ben had come from the gardens, hoped that he might have caught sight of his master and even by chance of his meeting with Master Colin.

“Did you see either of them, Weatherstaff?” she asked.

Ben took his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.