His voice sounded very small in the outdoor silence. Suppose no one were there at all! How silly it would sound to be addressing a tree! There was a moment of stillness, and then a rather old voice said:
"Considering that you are looking straight at me, that seems a somewhat foolish question."
"I can't see you, because I can't see anything."
After a pause, the voice said, "Forgive me." But indeed, at first glance, the grave shadowed beauty of Kirk's eyes did not betray their blindness.
"Are you one of the enchanted things, or a person?" Kirk inquired.
"I might say, now, that I am enchanted," said the voice, drily.
"I don't think I quite know what you mean," Kirk said. "You sound like a _Puck of Pook's Hill_ sort of person."
"Nothing so exciting. Though Oak and Ash and Thorn do grow in my garden."
"_Do_ they? I haven't found them. I knew it was a different place, ever so different from anything near--different from the other side of the hedge."
"I am not so young as you," said the voice, "to stand about hatless on an April afternoon. Let us come in and sit on either side of the chimney-corner."
And a long, dry, firm hand took Kirk's, and Kirk followed unhesitatingly where it led.
The smoothness of old polished floors, a sense of height, absolute silence, a dry, aromatic smell--this was Kirk's impression as he crossed the threshold, walking carefully and softly, that he might not break the spellbound stillness of the house. Then came the familiar crackle of an open fire, and Kirk was piloted into the delicious cozy depths of a big chair beside the hearth. Creakings, as of another chair being pulled up, then a contented sigh, indicated that his host had sat down opposite him.
"May I now ask your name?" the voice inquired.
"I'm Kirkleigh Sturgis, at Applegate Farm," said Kirk.
"' ... I s'pose you know, Miss Jean, That I'm Young Richard o' Taunton Dean....'"
Kirk pricked up his ears instantly. "Phil sings that," he said delightedly. "I'm glad you know it. But you would."
"Who'd have thought _you_ would know it?" said the voice. "I am fond of _Young Richard_. Is Phil your brother?"
"She's my sister--but I have a brother. He's sixteen, and he's almost as high as the doorways at Applegate Farm."