“The seventh of the month, and the Seven Gables, and seven years for Rachel—and, why, there were seven pigeons just outside as I came in, and this is the seventh room we’ve come to. Because I counted them. I don’t know why—but I did. What a lot of sevens.”
“Can you think of any other sevens in your life?” asked the little old man, quietly.
“Why, yes!” she answered, excitedly. “There are seven of us. All grown up except me. And I’m the seventh child, and the youngest!”
“Seven is a magic number, you know,” said her companion, gravely.
“Is it? Really and truly?” asked Rachel. “Oh, I do love hearing about magic things! But I thought there weren’t any now?”
“On the contrary, the world is full of them. Take this, for instance.” He pointed to the broken marble block. “That’s a magic stone.”
Rachel gazed at it reverently. “What does it do?” she asked almost in a whisper.
“It’s a gate into the Past,” returned the old man in a dreamy voice. “But come now,” he went on more briskly, “can we remember any more sevens? You begin.”
“There are seven days in the week,” said Rachel, trying to think, though she was longing to ask more about the magic stone.
“There’s the seven-branched candlestick in the Bible,” the old man went on, promptly.