"I believe there is," said
Uncle Felix. "Some day he'll come and a tremendous thing will happen,"
was another form of it, to which the answer was, "I know it will."
It was much nearer to them than before. It was just below the edge of
the world, the edge of life. It was in the air. Any morning they might
wake and find the great thing was there--arrived in the night while
they were sound asleep. So many things gave hints. A book _might_ tell
of it between the lines; each time a new book was opened a thrill
slipped out from the pages in advance. Yet no book they knew had ever
told it really. Out of doors, indeed, was the more likely place to
expect it. The tinkling stream either ran towards it, or else came
from it; that was its secret, the secret it was always singing about
day and night. But it was impossible to find the end or beginning of
any stream. Wind, moreover, announced it too, for wind didn't tear
about and roar like that for nothing. Spring, however, with its
immense hope and expectation, gave the clearest promise of all. In
winter it hid inside something, or at least went further away; yet
even in winter the marvellous something or some one lay waiting
underneath the snow, behind the fog, above the clouds.
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