A large, spread thing passed flutteringly up
and down the room a moment, then came the rest. It settled over
everything at once. A rustle was audible as of trailing, floating
hair.
"It's hiding in the corners and behind the furniture," whispered Uncle
Felix; "keep quiet. If you frighten it--whew!"--he whistled softly--
"it'll be off above the tree-tops in a second!"
A low soft whistle answered to his own; somewhere in the room it
sounded; there was no mistaking it, though the exact direction was
difficult to tell, for while Tim said it was through the keyhole, Judy
declared positively that it came from the door of the big, broken
cupboard opposite. Maria stated flatly, "Chimney."
"Hush! It's talking." It was Uncle Felix's voice breathing very low.
"It likes us. It feels we're friendly."
A murmur as of leaves was audible, or as of a pine bough sighing in a
breeze. Yet there were words as well--actual spoken words:
"Don't look for me, please," they heard. "I do not want to be seen.
But you may touch me. I like that."
The children spread their hands out in the darkness, groping,
searching, feeling.
"Ah, your touch!" the sighing voice continued.
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