Weaving and wobbling on his feet, Stepfather Time staggered toward the
pot calling on the name of Willy Woolly. At the gate he stopped, put
forth his hand, and lifted from the railing a wopsy, woolly fragment, no
bigger than a sheet of note paper. It was red and warm and wet.

"He's gone," said Stepfather Time.

The Clock of Conscience took up the tale. "Gone. Gone. Gone," it pealed.

As the collector would not leave the shattered house, they sent for me
to stay the night with him. A strange vigil! For now it was the man who
followed with intent, unworldly eyes that which I, with my lesser
vision, could not discern. And the Unseen moved swiftly about the
desolate room, low to the floor, and seemed finally to stop, motionless
beneath a caressing hand. I thought to hear that dull, measured thumping
of a grateful tail, but it was only the Twelve Apostles getting ready
to strike.

Only once that night did Stepfather Time speak, and then not to me.

"Tell her," he said in an assured murmur, "that I shan't be long."

"Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long," confirmed
Grandfather from his stance on the stairway.

In that assurance Stepfather Time fell asleep. He did not go out again
with his pushcart, but sat in the rear room while the Mordaunt Estate in
person superintended the job of putting a new front on the house.

The night after it was finished I received an urgent telephone call to