It is revelation.
Through the mind of each of these three flowed the stream of casual
thinking--images, reflections, and the shadowy scaffoldings of many
new emotions--sweeping along between the banks of speech and silence.
And this stream, though in flood, did not overflow into words for a
long time. With eyes turned inwards, each watched the current pass.
Clear and deep, it quietly reflected--stars. Each watched the same
stream, the same calm depths, the same delicate reflections. They were
in harmony with themselves, and therefore with the universe....
Then, suddenly, one of the reflections--it was the Pleiades--rose to
the surface to clasp its lovely original. It was the woman who netted
the golden thought and drew it forth for all to see.
'Couldn't you read it to us, Daddy?' she whispered softly across the
silence.
'If it's not too long for you.' He was so eager, so willing to comply.
'We will listen till the Morning Spiders take us home,' his cousin
said.
'It's only the shorter version,' Daddy agreed shiningly, 'a sketch for
the book which, of course, will take a year to write. I might read
_that_, perhaps.'
'Do,' urged Mother. 'We are all in it, aren't we? It's our story as
well as yours.'
He rose to get the portfolio from the shelf where he had laid it, and
while Rogers lit the lamp, Riquette stole in at the window, picking
her way daintily across the wet tiles.
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