Rosalind listened with interest.  “Isn’t Dr. Fair dead?” she asked.

“Yes.  He used to be our doctor, and I liked him so much.”

“The Fairs have lost all their money now, so Miss Celia has to teach and do all sorts of things,” Katherine remarked.

“Her name belongs to the Forest,” thought Rosalind, looking at the ripples, Belle had thrown herself back and was gazing at the sky from under her hat brim; Katherine was busy with a collection of pebbles; the stillness was broken only by the hum of insects and the murmur of Friendly Creek.  Suddenly Rosalind seemed to hear with perfect distinctness what it said,

“Be fr-ie-nds, be fr-ie-nds,” with a little trill on the words.

From experience she knew very little of unfriendliness.  All this about quarrels and having nothing to do with people was new to her.  As she considered it she remembered that Oliver hated Orlando, and Rosalind’s uncle had treated her and her father unkindly, in the story.  “But it all came right in the end,” she told herself, “when they met in the Forest.”  It was a cheering thought, and she smiled over it.

“What are you smiling at?” Belle asked, sitting up.

Rosalind’s eyes had a far-away look as she replied, “I was thinking about the Forest.”

“What forest?” Belle began to ask, when a curly dog rushed down upon them, and on the bridge above their heads they saw the magician waving his hand.

“Well, Curly Q. How are you?” cried Rosalind.

“There’s Morgan,” said Belle; “you know him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.  I took tea with him last week,” Rosalind answered, laughing.

“And, Belle, she calls him the ‘magician,’” Katherine said.

“Do you?  Why?”

“Because he is one.  Didn’t you know it?” Rosalind danced up the slope, with Curly Q. after her.

“Rosalind says you are a magician.  Are you?” Belle spelled rapidly when they had joined Morgan on the bridge.

The old man’s eyes twinkled as he replied, “That’s a secret; you mustn’t tell anybody.”

“Ask him if he knows about the Forest,” said Rosalind.

Belle asked the question.

Morgan laughed. “‘Where the birds sing—­’” he quoted.

“Tell me about it, please,” begged Belle.  “Does Katherine know?”

Rosalind promised she would sometime; and as Katherine did not know either, and as it was growing late, Belle agreed to wait.

It was rather an odd and pleasant sight, if any one had stopped to think of it—­the old man with his bright, wistful eyes, his tool box on his shoulder, and his three companions, walking home together.  Demure Katherine, dainty Rosalind, saucy Belle,—­all as merry as merry could be,—­and Curly Q. running in and out among them in an ecstasy of delight, and at imminent danger of upsetting somebody.

“Well, Pigeon, how do you like your new friend?” asked the colonel, as his daughter took her seat beside him on the door-step.