Early the next morning she went over to the Farm. The blinds were up; the doors and windows were flung open. Milly met her at the garden gate. She stopped her and walked a little way with her across the field. "It's worked," she said. "It's worked after all, like magic."
For a moment Agatha wondered whether Milly had guessed anything; whether she divined the Secret and had brought him there for that, and had refused to acknowledge it before she knew.
"What has?" she asked.
"The plan. The place. He slept last night. Ten hours straight on end. I know, for I stayed awake and watched him. And this morning—oh, my dear, if you could see him! He's all right. He's all right."
"And you think," said Agatha, "it's the place?"
Milly knew nothing, guessed, divined nothing.
"Why, what else can it be?" she said.
"What does he think?"
"He doesn't think. He can't account for it. He says himself it's miraculous."
"Perhaps," said Agatha, "it is."