Was it the Spirit of some unknown Star they had
attracted from beyond the Milky Way? Or was it, perhaps, a Thought
from some fair, exquisite heart that had been wakened by the rushing
of the Expresses, and had flashed in to take a place in the wonderful
story Daddy wove?
It had little twinkling feet, and its eyes were of brown flame and
amber.
'No, they did not notice the starry, fluttering figure. It overtook
them none the less, and with a flying leap was into the Pattern of his
story--in the very centre, too!--as quickly as lightning passes
through the foliage of the tree it strikes. Only the lightning stayed.
The figure remained caught. The entire Pattern shivered to its outer
fringes, then began to glow and shine all over. As the high harmonic
crowns the end of a long cadenza on a violin, fulfilling bars of
difficult effort, this point of exquisite beauty flashed life into the
Pattern of the story, consummating the labour of construction with the
true, inevitable climax. There was something of fairy insolence, both
cheeky and delicious, in the proprietary way it chose the principal
place, yet the only place still unoccupied, and sang 'I'm here. I've
come!' It calmly fashioned itself a nest, as it were, curled up and
made itself at home. It _was_ at home. The audacity was justified.
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