"How on earth did you
manage it?"
"I may be a mystillectual insect," she replied, proud of the
compliment. "But what's the good of being alive, even like a daisy,
unless others know it--_us_, for instance?"
He still stared at her, sitting up stiffly, and propped by his hands
upon the grass behind him. After prolonged reflection, during which he
closed his eyes and opened them several times in succession, sighing
laboriously while he did so, low mumbled words became audible.
"Forgive my apparent slowness," he said, "but I feel like a mowing-
machine this afternoon. I want oiling and pushing. The answer to your
inquiry, however, is as follows: We could--_if_ we took the trouble."
"Could know that daisies are alive?" she cried.
His great head nodded.
"If we thought about them very hard indeed," he went on, "and for a
very, very long time we could feel as they feel, and so understand
them, and know exactly _how_ they are alive."
And the way he said it, the grave, thoughtful, solemn way, convinced
her, who already was convinced beforehand.
"I do believe we could," she answered simply.
"I'm sure of it," he said.
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