We shall see to-morrow. Something will get
through at any rate, and we must do this every night, you know.'
'Rather!' echoed Mother.
'Her actual self, you see, has dwindled so that one can hardly find
it. It's smaller than a flea, and as hard and black.' They smiled a
little sadly.
The Sweep, rushing out of the window with his heavy sack loaded to the
brim, interrupted their low laughter. He was no talker, but a man of
action. Busily all this time he had been gathering up the loose, stray
fragments that floated off from the cloud, and stuffing them into the
sack. He now flew, singing, into the night, and they barely caught the
last words of his eternal song:--
'... a tremendously busy Sweep,
Tossing the blacks in the Rubbish Heap
Over the edge of the world.'
'Come,' whispered Daddy. 'It's getting late. The interfering sun is on
the way, and you've been hours here already. All the trains are back,
and every one is waiting for us.' Yet it had seemed so short a time
really.
Wrapped together in the beauty of his Pattern, they left the old lady
peacefully asleep, and sped across the roofs towards the forest.
But neither of them noticed, it seemed, the lovely little shining
figure that hovered far in the air above and watched them go. It
followed them all the way, catching even at the skirts of the flying
Pattern as they went.
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