The night was so magical, the world so wonderful, so without bound or limit, that he was prepared now to wait, passively, for his experience.

That point of light was where the Scarecrow used to be, just where the brown fields rise up against the horizon.

In all his walks to-day he had deliberately avoided that direction.

The Scarecrow would not be there now; he had always in his heart fancied it there, and he would not change that picture that he had of it.

But now the light flashed at him.