That tiny smile
had flashed its secret, ineffable explanation into him. Starlight was
in his blood....
Mother, for instance, he vaguely knew, was speaking of the years they
all had lived in Bourcelles, of the exquisite springs, of the fairy,
gorgeous summers. It was the most ordinary talk imaginable, though it
came sincerely from her heart.
'If only you had come here earlier,' she said, 'when the forest was so
thick with flowers.' She enumerated them one by one. 'Now, in the
autumn, there are so few!'
The little sparkling answer lit the forest glades afresh with colour,
perfume, wonder:--
'But the autumn flowers, I think, are the sweetest; for they have the
beauty of all the summer in them.'
A slight pause followed, and then all fell to explaining the shining
little sentence until its lustre dimmed and disappeared beneath the
smother of their words. In himself, however, who heard them not, a new
constellation swam above the horizon of his inner world. Riquette
looked slyly up and blinked. She purred more deeply, but she made no
stupid sign....
And Daddy mentioned then the forest spell that captured the entire
village with its peace and softness--'all so rough and big and
tumbled, and yet every detail so exquisitely finished and thought out,
you know.'
Out slipped the softest little fairy phrase imaginable from her dim
corner then:--
'Yes, like hand-made things--you can almost see the hand that made
them.
Pages:
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576