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"Can we go inside?" I asked.

"Certainly; but won't they be missing you back at Farthy by now?"

"I don't care. I feel like a prisoner in there, anyway. Please, take me into the cottage."

He pushed me forward down the path of flagstone to the front door, opened it and then wheeled me in. There were Tatterton Toys

everywhere, on shelves and on the mantel above the fireplace, and at least a half-dozen antique clocks, all on time. As if to punctuate this realization, the grandfather clock in the corner struck the hour and the light blue music-box clock that was shaped like the cottage itself opened its front door. The tiny family within emerged and then retreated to a sweet, haunting melody, a melody that was familiar.

It was the same melody that played whenever the roof of the toy cottage back at Winnerrow was lifted: Chopin's nocturne. We looked at one another as the melody came to an end.

"My mother had a toy cottage that looked exactly like this cottage, with the hedges and the pine trees, and it played the same tune. She gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday. It is as old as I am and it still works. Someone sent it to her right after I was born."

"Yes," he said. He could barely utter the word.. He looked frightened, his eyes a little wider. Then his expression changed and he looked very sad, his head tilted as he went into deep thought for a moment. Suddenly he realized I was staring, and smiled.

I turned away quickly and continued to inspect the cottage. It was quaint, cozy, and warm, as I imagined a gardener's cottage might be. Although the furniture was old, none of it looked worn. Shelves, floors, curtains--everything looked neat and clean, looked like it belonged in the home of a meticulous person. There were really only two rooms, and in the living room right before the fireplace was a long table, covered with tiny pieces of metal, tools, and what was an unfinished toy medieval village. The church with its spiral roof and stained-glass windows was completed. There was even a priest standing in the doorway waving hello to his approaching parishioners. There were shops and fine stone houses and the huts of the poorer folk. Some tiny wagons drawn by horses were only partially completed, as were some of the buildings and walkways.

"I have some ice tea, if you'd like."

"Yes, please." I wheeled myself into the living room to look more closely at the Tatterton Toy village.

"That one's taking me a lot longer because I keep adding something here and there," he explained.

"It's so beautiful, so lifelike! I love it. Look at how you've captured the expressions on their faces. No two are the same." I looked up and caught him gazing intently at me, a soft and wonderful smile on his face. He realized how he was staring.

"Oh . . . the tea. One moment," he said, and went into the kitchen. I sat back and looked around the cottage.

"Here you go," he said, coming over quickly to hand the ice tea to me. I took it but didn't drink it. He tried to avoid my eyes, and turned away to busy himself putting tools back in their little niches on the wall.

"You're the man I saw from the window of my room," I declared.

"Oh?"

"I saw you at my parents' monument, didn't I?" "I stopped there once, yes."

"More than once," I insisted.

"Maybe more than once." He flashed a smile and sat on the wooden rocker beside the fireplace. He put his hands behind his head, his long slender legs stretched out,and looked up at the ceiling. Now that I studied his profile, I saw that he was quite goodlooking in a special way. He radiated a sensitivity that reminded me of Luke when Luke was his most loving, most intense and poetic self.

"My walks are my only form of exercise these days. I wander all about the grounds."

"You were at the service, too. I saw you," I said pointedly. "Why couldn't you come out of the woods and stand beside the other mourners?"

"Oh . . I'm just shy. So," he said, anxious to change the topic, "how is your recuperation coming along?"

"But why wouldn't you want to be seen there? Are you afraid of Tony?"

"No." He smiled.

"I can't understand why you keep yourself so . . so hidden, then."

"It's just my way. I suppose there's something peculiar about all of us if we care to look closely. I'm the type who likes being by himself."

"But why?" I pursued.

"Why?" He laughed. "You do hang on once something bothers you, don't you? Just like your mother."

"I don't understand how you know so much about her if you like to keep to yourself all the time."