The adventures they had
before Uncle Felix came were the ordinary kind all children know; they
invented them themselves. Their new adventures were of a different
order--impossible but true. Their uncle had brought a key that opened
heaven and earth.
He did not know that he had brought this key. It was just natural--he
let himself in because it was his nature so to do; the others merely
went in with him. He worked away in his room, covering reams of paper
with nonsense out of his big head; and the trio never disturbed him or
knocked at his door, or even looked for him: they knew that his real
life ran with theirs, and the moment he had covered so many dozen
sheets he would appear and join them. All people had their duties; his
duty was to fill so many sheets a day for printers; but his important
life belonged to them and they just lived it naturally together. He
would never leave the Old Mill House. The funny thing was--whatever
had he done with himself before he came there!
Everything he said and did lit up the common things of daily life with
this strange, big wonder that was his great possession. Yet his method
was simple and instinctive; he never thought things out; he just--
knew.
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