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Old Man Smith reached down and took her chin in his hands.

“Oh my Lord–what a beautiful face!” he said. “What a beautiful face!–And you say she’s lost her mind?” he said. “You say she’s lost her mind?” He turned to Carol. “And what do you say?” he asked.

“Oh, please, Sir, Carol doesn’t say anything!” I explained. “He can’t! He’s dumb!”

“Dumb?” cried Old Man Smith. “So this is the Dumb Child, is it?” He looked at Carol. He looked at himself. He looked at my freckles. He rocked his hands on his stomach. “Merciful God!” he said. “How are we all afflicted!”

“Oh, please, Sir,” I said, “my brother Carol isn’t afflicted at all!–It’s a great gift my Mother says to be born with the Gift of Silence instead of the Gift of Speech!”

He made a little chuckle in his throat. He began to look at Young Annie Halliway all over again.

“And what does your Mother say about her?” he pointed.

“My Mother says,” I explained, “that she only hopes that the person who finds her mind will be honest enough to return it!”

“What?” said Old Man Smith. “To return it?–Honest enough to return it?”

He began to do everything all over again!–To chuckle! To rock! To take Young Annie Halliway’s chin in his hand!

“And what did you say your name was, my pretty darling?” he asked.

Young Annie Halliway looked a little surprised.

“My name is Robin,” she said. “Dearest–Robin–I think.”

“You think wrong!” said Old Man Smith. He frowned with ferocity.

It made us pretty nervous all of a sudden.

Carol went off to look at the bee-hive to calm himself. Young Annie Halliway picked up the end of one of her long braids and looked at that. There was still about a foot of it that didn’t have anything braided into it. I didn’t know where to look so I looked at the house. It was very glistening. Blue it glistened. And green it glistened! And red it glistened! And pink! And purple! And yellow!

“Oh, see!” I pointed. “There’s old Mrs. Beckett’s rose-vase with the gold edge!–She dropped it on the brick garden-walk the day her son who’d been lost at sea for eleven years walked through the gate all alive and perfectly dry!–And that chunky white nozzle with the blue stripe on it?–I know what that is!–It’s the nose of Deacon Perry’s first wife’s best tea pot!–I’ve seen it there! In a glass cupboard! On the top shelf!–She never used it ‘cept when the Preacher came!”

“The Deacon’s second wife broke it–feeding chickens out of it,” said Old Man Smith.

“And that little scrap of saucer,” I cried, “with the pansy petal on it?–Why–Why that’s little Hallie Bent’s doll-dishes!–We played with ’em down in the orchard! She died!” I cried. “She had the whooping-measles!”

“That little scrap of saucer,” said Old Man Smith, “was the only thing they found in Mr. Bent’s bank box.–What the widow was lookin’ for was gold!”

“And that green glass stopper!” I cried. “Oh, Goodie—-Goodie—-Goodie!–Why, that—-“

“Hush your noise!” said Old Man Smith. “History is solemn!–The whole history of the village is written on the outer walls of my house!–When the Sun strikes here,–strikes there,–on that bit of glass,–on this bit of crockles–the edge of a plate,–the rim of a tumbler,–I read about folk’s minds!–What they loved!–What they hated!–What they was thinking of instead when it broke!–” He snatched his long white beard in his hands. He wagged his head at me. “There’s a law about breakin’ things,” he said, “same as there’s a law about losin’ them! My house is a sample-book,” he said. “On them there walls–all stuck up like that–I’ve got a sample of most every mind in the village!–People give ’em to me themselves,” he said. “They let me rake out their trash barrels every now and then. They don’t know what they’re givin.’–Now, that little pewter rosette there—-“

“It would be nice–wouldn’t it,” I said, “if you could find a sample of Young Annie Halliway’s mind? Then maybe you could match it!”