"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....'"
murmured the old gentleman.