Mother felt that things were rushing about her from another world. She
was vaguely conscious--deliciously, bewilderingly--of having heard
this all before. Imaginative folk have built the certainty of a
previous existence upon evidence as slight; for actual scenery came
with it, and she saw dim forest trees, and figures hovering in the
background, and bright atmosphere, and fields of brilliant stars. She
felt happy and shining, light as a feather, too. It all was just
beyond her reach, though; she could not recover it properly. 'It must
have been a dream _she_ told me,' was her conclusion, referring to
Mlle. Lemaire. Her old friend was in it somewhere or other. She felt
sure of that.
She hardly heard, indeed, the silly lines her husband read aloud to
the children. She liked the sound of his voice, though; it suggested
music she had known far away--in her childhood.
'It's high spirits really,' whispered Rogers, sitting beside her in
the window. 'It's a sort of overflow from his story. He can't do that
kind of rhyme a bit, but it's an indication---'
'You think he's got a fine big story this time?' she asked under her
breath; and Cousin Henry's eyes twinkled keenly as he gave a
significant nod and answered: 'Rather! Can't you feel the splendour
all about him, the strength, the harmony!'
She leaped at the word.
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