And Dickon helped him, and the Magic—or
whatever it was—so gave him strength that
when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange
lovely afternoon for them there he actually stood on
his two feet—laughing.
MAGIC
Dr. Craven had been waiting some time at the house
when they returned to it. He had indeed begun
to wonder if it might not be wise to send some one
out to explore the garden paths. When Colin was
brought back to his room the poor man looked him over
seriously.
“You should not have stayed so long,”
he said. “You must not overexert yourself.”
“I am not tired at all,” said Colin.
“It has made me well. To-morrow I am going
out in the morning as well as in the afternoon.”
“I am not sure that I can allow it,” answered
Dr. Craven. “I am afraid it would not be
wise.”
“It would not be wise to try to stop me,”
said Colin quite seriously. “I am going.”
Even Mary had found out that one of Colin’s
chief peculiarities was that he did not know in the
least what a rude little brute he was with his way
of ordering people about. He had lived on a sort
of desert island all his life and as he had been the
king of it he had made his own manners and had had
no one to compare himself with. Mary had indeed
been rather like him herself and since she had been
at Misselthwaite had gradually discovered that her
own manners had not been of the kind which is usual
or popular. Having made this discovery she naturally
thought it of enough interest to communicate to Colin.
So she sat and looked at him curiously for a few minutes
after Dr. Craven had gone. She wanted to make
him ask her why she was doing it and of course she
did.
“What are you looking at me for?” he said.
“I’m thinking that I am rather sorry for
Dr. Craven.”
“So am I,” said Colin calmly, but not
without an air of some satisfaction. “He
won’t get Misselthwaite at all now I’m
not going to die.”
“I’m sorry for him because of that, of
course,” said Mary, “but I was thinking
just then that it must have been very horrid to have
had to be polite for ten years to a boy who was always
rude. I would never have done it.”
“Am I rude?” Colin inquired undisturbedly.
“If you had been his own boy and he had been
a slapping sort of man,” said Mary, “he
would have slapped you.”
“But he daren’t,” said Colin.
“No, he daren’t,” answered Mistress
Mary, thinking the thing out quite without prejudice.
“Nobody ever dared to do anything you didn’t
like—because you were going to die and things
like that. You were such a poor thing.”
“But,” announced Colin stubbornly, “I
am not going to be a poor thing. I won’t
let people think I’m one. I stood on my
feet this afternoon.”
“It is always having your own way that has made
you so queer,” Mary went on, thinking aloud.
