In spite of her wish to spare the world, did she wish he were alive again? There was no way of knowing. But Mae had done what she thought she had to do. Winnie closed her eyes to shut out the silent pulsing of the lightning. Now she would have to do something. She had no idea what, but something. Mae Tuck must not go to the gallows. Next morning Winnie went out to the fence directly after breakfast.
It was the hottest day yet, so heavy that the slightest exertion brought on a flood of perspiration, an exhaustion in the joints. Two days before, they would have insisted that she stay indoors, but now, this morning, they were careful with her, a little gingerly, as if she were an egg. She had said, "I'm going outside now," and they had said, "All right, but come in if it gets too hot, won't you, dear? The earth, where it was worn bald under the gate, was cracked, and hard as rock, a lifeless tan color; and the road was an aisle of brilliant velvet dust.
Winnie leaned against the fence, her hands gripping the warm metal of the bars, and thought about Mae behind another set of bars in the jailhouse. And then, lifting her head, she saw the toad. It was squatting where she had seen it first, across the road. The toad did not so much as flick a muscle or blink an eye. It looked dried out today, parched.
There's a toad out front that looks as if he's just about to die of thirst. Can I give him a drink of water? It wouldn't do him any good. They take it in through their skins, like a sponge. When it rains. That would help, wouldn't it? In the yard? I don't want you leaving the yard alone.
But when they came out to the fence, Winnie balancing a small bowl of water with enormous care, the toad was gone. With mingled disappointment and relief, Winnie tipped the water onto the cracked earth at the gate.
It was sucked in immediately, and the wet brown stain it left behind paled and vanished almost as quickly. She sat down on the grass and sighed. What could she do to set Mae free? She closed her eyes against the glaring light, and watched, a little dizzily, as brilliant patterns of red and orange danced inside her eyelids.
And then, miraculously, Jesse was there, crouching just on the other side of the fence. What can we do? We have to get her out! He says he can take Ma's window frame right straight out of the wall, bars and all, and she can climb through. We're going to try it tonight when it gets dark.
Only trouble is, that constable keeps watching her every minute, he's so durned proud of having a prisoner in that new jail of his. We been down to see her. She's all right. But even if she can climb through the window, he'll come after her soon's he sees she's gone. Seems to me he'll notice right off. That don't give us much time to get away. But we got to try it. There ain't no other way. Anyhow, I come to say goodbye. We won't be able to come back here for a long, long time, Winnie, if we get away.
I mean, they'll be looking for Ma. Winnie, listen—I won't see you again, not for ages. Look now—here's a bottle of water from the spring. You keep it. And then, no matter where you are, when you're seventeen, Winnie, you can drink it, and then come find us. We'll leave directions somehow. Winnie, please say you will! He pressed the little bottle into her hands and Winnie took it, closing her fingers over it. When your mother climbs out the window, I'll climb in and take her place. I can wrap myself up in her blanket, and when the constable looks in, he won't be able to tell the difference.
Not in the dark. I can hump up and look a lot bigger. Miles can even put the window back. That would give you time to get away! You'd have at least till morning!
Jesse squinted at her, and then he said, "Yep—you know, it might work. It might just make the difference. But I don't know as Pa's going to want you taking any risk.
I mean, what'll they say to you after, when they find out? Tell your father I want to help. I have to help. If it wasn't for me, there wouldn't have been any trouble in the first place. Tell him I have to. Can you get out after dark? I'll be waiting for you right here at midnight. Winnie stood up and turned to answer. I'll be in in a minute. Winnie clutched the little bottle in her hands and tried to control the rising excitement that made her breath catch. At midnight she would make a difference in the world.
It was the longest day: mindlessly hot, unspeakably hot, too hot to move or even think. The countryside, the village of Treegap, the wood—all lay defeated.
Nothing stirred. The sun was a ponderous circle without edges, a roar without a sound, a blazing glare so thorough and remorseless that even in the Fosters' parlor, with curtains drawn, it seemed an actual presence. You could not shut it out. Winnie's mother and grandmother sat plaintive all afternoon in the parlor, fanning themselves and sipping lemonade, their hair unsettled and their knees loose. It was totally unlike them, this lapse from gentility, and it made them much more interesting.
But Winnie didn't stay with them, instead, she took her own brimming glass to her room and sat in her little rocker by the window.
Once she had hidden Jesse's bottle in a bureau drawer, there was nothing to do but wait. In the hall outside her room, the grandfather's clock ticked deliberately, unimpressed with anyone's impatience, and Winnie found herself rocking to its rhythm—forward, back, forward, back, tick, tock, tick, tock.
She tried to read, but it was so quiet that she could not concentrate, and so she was glad when at last it was time for supper. It was something to do, though none of them could manage more than a nibble. But later, when Winnie went out again to the fence, she saw that the sky was changing. It was not so much clouding up as thickening, somehow, from every direction at once, the blank blue gone to haze.
And then, as the sun sank reluctantly behind the treetops, the haze hardened to a brilliant brownish-yellow. In the wood, the leaves turned underside-up, giving the trees a silvery cast. The air was noticeably heavier. It pressed on Winnie's chest and made her breathing difficult. She turned and went back into the cottage.
Everyone went to bed early, closing windows firmly on their way. For outside, though it was almost dark, shreds of the hard brown-yellow light lingered on the rims of things, and there was a wind beginning, small gusts that rattled the fence gate and set the trees to rustling. The smell of rain hung sweet in the air. There were three hours to wait before midnight and nothing whatever to do.
Winnie wandered restlessly about her room, sat in her rocker, lay on her bed, counted the ticks of the hall clock. Beneath her excitement, she was thick with guilt. For the second time in three short days—though they seemed many more than that—she was about to do something which she knew would be forbidden. She didn't have to ask.
Winnie had her own strong sense of rightness. She knew that she could always say, afterward, "Well, you never told me not to!
Of course it would never occur to them to include such a thing on their list of don'ts. She could hear them saying it, and almost smiled: "Now, remember, Winifred—don't bite your fingernails, don't interrupt when someone else is speaking, and don't go down to the jailhouse at midnight to change places with prisoners. Still, it wasn't really funny. What would happen in the morning, when the constable found her in the cell and had to bring her home for the second time?
What would they say? Would they ever trust her again? Winnie squirmed, sitting in the rocker, and swallowed uncomfortably. Well, she would have to make them understand, somehow, without explaining.
The hall clock chimed eleven. Outside, the wind had stopped. Everything, it seemed, was waiting. Winnie lay down and closed her eyes. Thinking of Tuck and Mae, of Miles and Jesse, her heart softened. They needed her. To take care of them. For in the funny sort of way that had struck her at the first, they were helpless. Or too trusting. Well, something like that.
Anyway, they needed her. She would not disappoint them. Mae would go free. No one would have to find out—Winnie would not have to find out—that Mae could not. Instead, she turned her thoughts to Jesse. When she was seventeen—would she? If it was true, would she? And if she did, would she be sorry afterwards? Tuck had said, "It's something you don't find out how you feel until afterwards. She knew that, now, here in her own bedroom.
They were probably crazy after all. But she loved them anyway. And, thinking this, Winnie fell asleep. She woke with a jerk sometime later, and sat up, alarmed. The clock was ticking steadily, the darkness was complete. Outside, the night seemed poised on tiptoe, waiting, waiting, holding its breath for the storm. Winnie stole out to the hall and frowned at the clock face in the shadows.
And at last she could make it out, for the black Roman numerals were just barely visible against their white ground, the brass hands glowed faintly. As she peered at them, the long hand snapped forward one more notch, with a loud click. She had not missed her moment—it was five minutes to midnight. Leaving the house was so easy that Winnie felt faintly shocked. She had half expected that the instant she put a foot on the stairs they would leap from their beds and surround her with accusations.
But no one stirred. And she was struck by the realization that, if she chose, she could slip out night after night without their knowing. The thought made her feel more guilty than ever that she should once more take advantage of their trust. But tonight, this one last time, she had to.
There was no other way. She opened the door and slipped out into the heavy August night. Leaving the cottage was like leaving something real and moving into dream. Her body felt weightless, and she seemed to float down the path to the gate.
Jesse was there, waiting. Neither of them spoke. He took her hand and they ran together, lightly, down the road, past other sleeping cottages, into the dim and empty center of the village.
The big glass windows here were lidded eyes that didn't care—that barely saw them, barely gave them back reflections. The blacksmith's shop, the mill, the church, the stores, so busy and alive in daylight, were hunched, deserted now, dark piles and shapes without a purpose or a meaning. And then, ahead, Winnie saw the jailhouse, its new wood still unpainted, lamplight spilling through a window at the front.
And there, in the cleared yard behind it, like a great L upside down, was the gallows. The sky flashed white. But this time it wasn't heat lightning, for a few moments later a low mumble, still far away, announced at last the coming storm. A fresh breeze lifted Winnie's hair, and from somewhere in the village behind them a dog barked.
Two shadows detached themselves from the gloom as Winnie and Jesse came up. Tuck pulled her to him and hugged her hard, and Miles squeezed her hand. No one said a word. Then the four of them crept to the back of the building. Here, too high for Winnie to see into, was a barred window through which, from the room in front, light glowed faintly.
Winnie peered up at it, at the blackness of the bars with the dim gold of the light between. Into her head came lines from an old poem:. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage. Over and over the lines repeated themselves in her head till they were altogether meaningless. Another roll of thunder sounded.
The storm was moving nearer. Then Miles was standing on a box. He was pouring oil around the frame of the window. A swirl of wind brought the thick, rich smell of it down to Winnie's nostrils. Tuck handed up a tool and Miles began to pry at the nails securing the window frame.
Miles knew carpentering. Miles could do the job. Winnie shivered and held tight to Jesse's hand. One nail was free. Tuck reached up to receive them as they came out one by one. A fourth nail screeched as it was pried up, and Miles poured on more oil. From the front of the jailhouse, the constable yawned noisily and began to whistle. The whistling came nearer. Miles dropped down. They heard the constable's footsteps coming up to Mae's cell. Mae sat there frowning, a great potato of a woman with a round, sensible face and calm brown eyes.
Our sons. I'm going to ride down to meet them. Anyways, it's ten years since I went to Treegap. No one'll remember me.
I'll ride in at sunset, just to the wood. I won't go into the village. But, even if someone did see me, they won't remember. They never did before, now, did they? Mae Tuck climbed out of bed and began to dress: three petticoats, a rusty brown skirt with one enormous pocket, an old cotton jacket, and a knitted shawl which she pinned across her bosom with a tarnished metal brooch. The sounds of her dressing were so familiar to Tuck that he could say, without opening his eyes, "You don't need that shawl in the middle of the summer.
Mae ignored this observation. Instead, she said, "Will you be all right? We won't get back till late tomorrow. Mae sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of short leather boots so thin and soft with age it was a wonder they held together. Then she stood and took from the washstand beside the bed a little square-shaped object, a music box painted with roses and lilies of the valley. It was the one pretty thing she owned and she never went anywhere without it.
Her fingers strayed to the winding key on its bottom, but glancing at the sleeping Tuck, she shook her head, gave the little box a pat, and dropped it into her pocket. Then, last of all, she pulled down over her ears a blue straw hat with a drooping, exhausted brim. But, before she put on the hat, she brushed her gray-brown hair and wound it into a bun at the back of her neck. She did this quickly and skillfully without a single glance in the mirror.
Mae Tuck didn't need a mirror, though she had one propped up on the washstand. She knew very well what she would see in it; her reflection had long since ceased to interest her. For Mae Tuck, and her husband, and Miles and Jesse, too, had all looked exactly the same for eighty-seven years. At noon of that same day in the first week of August, Winnie Foster sat on the bristly grass just inside the fence and said to the large toad who was squatting a few yards away across the road, "I will, though.
You'll see. Maybe even first thing tomorrow, while everyone's still asleep. It was hard to know whether the toad was listening or not. Certainly, Winnie had given it good reason to ignore her.
She had come out to the fence, very cross, very near the boiling point on a day that was itself near to boiling, and had noticed the toad at once. It was the only living thing in sight except for a stationary cloud of hysterical gnats suspended in the heat above the road.
Winnie had found some pebbles at the base of the fence and, for lack of any other way to show how she felt, had flung one at the toad. It missed altogether, as she'd fully intended it should, but she made a game of it anyway, tossing pebbles at such an angle that they passed through the gnat cloud on their way to the toad. The gnats were too frantic to notice these intrusions, however, and since every pebble missed its final mark, the toad continued to squat and grimace without so much as a twitch.
Possibly it felt resentful. Or perhaps it was only asleep. In either case, it gave her not a glance when at last she ran out of pebbles and sat down to tell it her troubles.
At this moment a window at the front of the cottage was flung open and a thin voice—her grandmother's—piped, "Winifred! Don't sit on that dirty grass. You'll stain your boots and stockings. And another, firmer voice—her mother's—added, "Come in now, Winnie. Right away. You'll get heat stroke out there on a day like this.
And your lunch is ready. It's like that every minute. If I had a sister or a brother, there'd be someone else for them to watch. But, as it is, there's only me. I'm tired of being looked at all the time. I want to be by myself for a change. Something that would make some kind of difference in the world. It'd be nice to have a new name, to start with, one that's not all worn out from being called so much. And I might even decide to have a pet. Maybe a big old toad, like you, that I could keep in a nice cage with lots of grass, and.
At this the toad stirred and blinked. It gave a heave of muscles and plopped its heavy mudball of a body a few inches farther away from her. Why should you have to be cooped up in a cage, too? It'd be better if I could be like you, out in the open and making up my own mind. Do you know they've hardly ever let me out of this yard all by myself? I'll never be able to do anything important if I stay in here like this. I expect I'd better run away.
Maybe even first thing in the morning, while everyone's still asleep. I'm coming! She stood up, brushing at her legs where bits of itchy grass clung to her stockings.
The toad, as if it saw that their interview was over, stirred again, bunched up, and bounced itself clumsily off toward the wood. Winnie watched it go. Just wait till morning. At sunset of that same long day, a stranger came strolling up the road from the village and paused at the Fosters' gate. Winnie was once again in the yard, this time intent on catching fireflies, and at first she didn't notice him. But, after a few moments of watching her, he called out, "Good evening!
He was remarkably tall and narrow, this stranger standing there. His long chin faded off into a thin, apologetic beard, but his suit was a jaunty yellow that seemed to glow a little in the fading light.
A black hat dangled from one hand, and as Winnie came toward him, he passed the other through his dry, gray hair, settling it smoothly. I used to do it myself when I was your age. But of course that was a long, long time ago.
His tall body moved continuously; a foot tapped, a shoulder twitched. And it moved in angles, rather jerkily. But at the same time he had a kind of grace, like a well-handled marionette.
Indeed, he seemed almost to hang suspended there in the twilight. But Winnie, though she was half charmed, was suddenly reminded of the stiff black ribbons they had hung on the door of the cottage for her grandfather's funeral. She frowned and looked at the man more closely. But his smile seemed perfectly all right, quite agreeable and friendly. In a bit," said the man. Have you and your family lived here long?
It was not a question, but Winnie decided to explain anyway. My grandmother was born here. She says this was all trees once, just one big forest everywhere around, but it's mostly all cut down now. Except for the wood. The man lifted his eyebrows. A family. You could ask him. At this moment the cottage door opened, and in the lamp glow that spilled across the grass, Winnie's grandmother appeared. Who are you talking to out there?
She picked up her skirts and came down the path to the gate. The man on the other side of the fence bowed slightly. His yellow suit seemed to surprise her, and she squinted suspiciously. Who are you? Who are you looking for? The man answered neither of these questions. Instead, he said, "This young lady tells me you've lived here for a long time, so I thought you would probably know everyone who comes and goes. The old woman shook her head. And I don't stand outside in the dark discussing such a thing with strangers.
Neither does Winifred. And then she paused. For, through the twilight sounds of crickets and sighing trees, a faint, surprising wisp of music came floating to them, and all three turned toward it, toward the wood. It was a tinkling little melody, and in a few moments it stopped. That's it! That's the elf music I told you about. Why, it's been ages since I heard it last. And this is the first time you've ever heard it, isn't it?
Wait till we tell your father! He had stiffened, and his voice was eager. But, before he could get an answer, it began again and they all stopped to listen. This time it tinkled its way faintly through the little melody three times before it faded. It's elves! And then she said to the man at the gate, "You'll have to excuse us now. But the man in the yellow suit stood tapping his foot in the road for a long time all alone, looking at the wood. The last stains of sunset had melted away, and the twilight died, too, as he stood there, though its remnants clung reluctantly to everything that was pale in color—pebbles, the dusty road, the figure of the man himself—turning them blue and blurry.
Then the moon rose. The man came to himself and sighed. His expression was one of intense satisfaction. He put on his hat, and in the moonlight his long fingers were graceful and very white. Then he turned and disappeared down the shadowy road, and as he went he whistled, very softly, the tinkling little melody from the wood. Winnie woke early next morning. The sun was only just opening its own eye on the eastern horizon and the cottage was full of silence.
But she realized that sometime during the night she had made up her mind: she would not run away today. It was one thing to talk about being by yourself, doing important things, but quite another when the opportunity arose. The characters in the stories she read always seemed to go off without a thought or care, but in real life—well, the world was a dangerous place.
People were always telling her so. And she would not be able to manage without protection. They were always telling her that, too. No one ever said precisely what it was that she would not be able to manage. But she did not need to ask. Her own imagination supplied the horrors. Still, it was galling, this having to admit she was afraid.
And when she remembered the toad, she felt even more disheartened. What if the toad should be out by the fence again today? What if he should laugh at her secretly and think she was a coward?
Well, anyway, she could at least slip out, right now, she decided, and go into the wood. To see if she could discover what had really made the music the night before. That would be something, anyway. She did not allow herself to consider the idea that making a difference in the world might require a bolder venture. She merely told herself consolingly, "Of course, while I'm in the wood, if I decide never to come back, well then, that will be that.
It was another heavy morning, already hot and breathless, but in the wood the air was cooler and smelled agreeably damp. Winnie had been no more than two slow minutes walking timidly under the interlacing branches when she wondered why she had never come here before. For the wood was full of light, entirely different from the light she was used to. It was green and amber and alive, quivering in splotches on the padded ground, fanning into sturdy stripes between the tree trunks.
There were little flowers she did not recognize, white and palest blue; and endless, tangled vines; and here and there a fallen log, half rotted but soft with patches of sweet green-velvet moss. And there were creatures everywhere. The air fairly hummed with their daybreak activity: beetles and birds and squirrels and ants, and countless other things unseen, all gentle and self-absorbed and not in the least alarming.
There was even, she saw with satisfaction, the toad. It was squatting on a low stump and she might not have noticed it, for it looked more like a mushroom than a living creature sitting there. As she came abreast of it, however, it blinked, and the movement gave it away. The toad blinked again and nodded. Or perhaps it was only swallowing a fly. But then it nudged itself off the edge of the stump and vanished in the underbrush.
She wandered for a long time, looking at everything, listening to everything, proud to forget the tight, pruned world outside, humming a little now, trying to remember the pattern of the melody she had heard the night before. And then, up ahead, in a place where the light seemed brighter and the ground somewhat more open, something moved. Winnie stopped abruptly and crouched down.
She began to creep forward. She would go just close enough, she told herself. Just close enough to see. And then she would turn and run. But when she came near, up behind a sheltering tree trunk, and peered around it, her mouth dropped open and all thought of running melted away. There was a clearing directly in front of her, at the center of which an enormous tree thrust up, its thick roots rumpling the ground ten feet around in every direction.
Sitting relaxed with his back against the trunk was a boy, almost a man. And he seemed so glorious to Winnie that she lost her heart at once. He was thin and sunburned, this wonderful boy, with a thick mop of curly brown hair, and he wore his battered trousers and loose, grubby shirt with as much self-assurance as if they were silk and satin. A pair of green suspenders, more decorative than useful, gave the finishing touch, for he was shoeless and there was a twig tucked between the toes of one foot.
He waved the twig idly as he sat there, his face turned up to gaze at the branches far above him. The golden morning light seemed to glow all around him, while brighter patches fell, now on his lean, brown hands, now on his hair and face, as the leaves stirred over his head.
Then he rubbed an ear carelessly, yawned, and stretched. Shifting his position, he turned his attention to a little pile of pebbles next to him. As Winnie watched, scarcely breathing, he moved the pile carefully to one side, pebble by pebble. Beneath the pile, the ground was shiny wet.
The boy lifted a final stone and Winnie saw a low spurt of water, arching up and returning, like a fountain, into the ground. He bent and put his lips to the spurt, drinking noiselessly and then he sat up again and drew his shirt sleeve across his mouth. As he did this, he turned his face in her direction—and their eyes met. For a long moment they looked at each other in silence, the boy with his arm still raised to his mouth. Neither of them moved.
At last his arm fell to his side. Winnie stood up, embarrassed and, because of that, resentful. The boy eyed her as she came forward. At least, I was never here before, but I could have come, any time. Winnie took his hand, staring at him. He was even more beautiful up close. Do you come here a lot? No one's supposed to. It's our wood. I mean, it's all right with me.
The boy grinned. Just passing through. And thanks, I'm glad it's all right with you. She stepped back and sat down primly a short distance from him. There was a pause. At last he said, "Why do you want to know? I'm one hundred and four years old," he told her solemnly. That's old. Winnie had the feeling he was laughing at her, but decided it was a nice kind of laughing. This time he laughed out loud. Are you? Now it was Winnie's turn to laugh.
But I'll be eleven pretty soon. Winnie laughed again, her head on one side, admiring him. And then she pointed to the spurt of water. Jesse Tuck's face was instantly serious. No—no, it's not," he said quickly. Comes right up out of the ground. Probably pretty dirty. Did you see that? The stranger stands in the road for a long time. Winnie wakes up early the next morning but decides that she does not want to run away.
Instead, she decides to go into the wood for the first time. She wanders for a long time, enjoying the wood and trying to find what made the music she heard the night before. She comes across a teenage boy with ratty clothes and no shoes, drinking from a spring by a large tree. He introduces himself as Jesse. Winnie introduces herself and tells him that it is her wood. She thinks that he is beautiful. Winnie asks Jesse how old he is. First, he replies that he is , but then says that he is seventeen.
Winnie tells him that she is ten, almost eleven. She asks if the spring is good to drink. Jesse immediately becomes worried and tells her that she should not drink the water. Mae Tuck puts Winnie on her horse and all of them leave the wood. Winnie realizes that she is being kidnapped.
Mae tells Winnie not to be scared and that they do not want to hurt her. They pass the stranger from the night before on the road and Winnie does not cry out for help. When they reach a stream outside of town, they stop. Winnie realizes that she is small and weak and should not have left on her own.
She begins to cry. Jesse, Miles, and Mae are all concerned, wishing that they had a better solution than kidnapping Winnie. Mae takes out her music box and it seems to calm Winnie. Mae hands it to Winnie and tells her to wind it. Winnie tells her that she heard the music the night before and was told it was elves.
Jesse tells Winnie that she needs to help them. Mae, Jesse, and Miles tell Winnie that they first found the spring eighty-seven years ago. The entire Tuck family, and the horse, drank from the stream.
Then, they settled in a valley not far away. Soon, the Tuck family discovered that they could not be injured, and they had stopped aging. Miles was married, but his wife thought his lack of aging was unnatural. They tell Winnie that if she had drunk from the spring, she would have stayed a little girl forever, never able to grow up. They explain to Winnie that it would be very bad if everyone knew about the spring.
Winnie is skeptical but finds the Tuck family very convincing. The Tucks promise to bring Winnie home the next day. Winnie agrees. She likes the Tuck family, especially Jesse. As they travel, she thinks that they are her friends and that she was running away after all. She also considers that she might get to live forever. Winnie and the Tucks travel to their house to introduce Winnie to Angus. Mae gives Winnie her hat for protection from the hot August sun.
Winnie appreciates all the open space and fields. The Tuck house is small and red, with a pond next to it. Angus Tuck comes out to meet his family and is pleased that they have brought Winnie. The Tuck home is full of cobwebs and clutter.
Winnie is surprised by it, but she thinks that it feels comfortable. Mae tells Winnie that the Tucks did not deserve to live forever, whether it is a blessing or a curse. Mae explains to Winnie that they cannot stay anywhere too long, or people start to get suspicious of them. Mae also tells her that Jesse and Miles travel around, finding what work they can, but they meet during the first week of August every ten years so that they can be a family.
Winnie eats dinner with the Tucks and is surprised that they do not sit around a table and use napkins. While all of them eat in silence, Winnie reconsiders her situation.
She starts to believe that the Tucks are actually criminals and that she has been kidnapped. Winnie tells them that she wants to go home. Mae tells Winnie that she will take her home after Angus talks to her. Mae mentions that they passed someone on their way from the spring to their home the stranger in the yellow suit.
Winnie says that he probably told her father that the Tucks have taken her. After some discussion, Angus says that they need to get Winnie home soon. Angus takes Winnie out on the pond in a small rowboat. He describes the pond and all the living things in and around it.
He tells her that they are all part of the wheel of life. He then tells her that the Tucks are like rocks on the side of the road, since they do not change and are no longer on the wheel of life. He tells her that he would accept dying if it meant he could change. Angus tells Winnie that if people knew, they would all come and drink from the spring, but later they would regret living forever, as Angus does.
Miles appears at the edge of the pond and yells to Angus and Winnie that someone has stolen the family horse. It is almost midnight, but there are lights on inside the house. Angus Tuck wonders if a common thief stole their horse, or if the thief had some special reason. Mae tells him that he worries too much, and that the problem will have to wait until morning. Winnie sleeps on the sofa, but it is uncomfortable.
She is also unhappy that she does not have her nightgown or her usual bedtime routine. Mae comes to check on her. Then Angus comes to check on her. The Tucks feel sorry that they have taken Winnie from her home.
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