"When will it begin?" both children asked in the same breath.
"At dawn," he said.
"To-morrow morning?"
"At dawn to-morrow morning."
"But to-morrow's Sunday," they objected.
"To-morrow's--an Extra Day," he said amazingly.
They hesitated a moment, stared, frowned, smiled, then opened their
eyes and mouths still wider than before.
"Oh, like that!" they exclaimed.
"Like that, yes," he said finally. "It means getting in behind Time,
you see. There's no Time in an Extra Day because it's never been
recorded by calendar or clock. And that means getting behind the great
hurrying humbug of a thing that blinds and confuses everybody all the
world over--it means getting closer to the big Reality that--"
He broke off sharply, aware that his own emotion was carrying him out
of his depth, and out of their depth likewise. He changed the
sentence: "We shall be in Eternity," he whispered very softly, so
softly that it was scarcely audible perhaps.
And it was then that Maria, still seated solidly upon the lawn, looked
up and asked another baffling and unexpected question. For this was
_her_ private and particular adventure: and, living ever at the centre
of the circle, Maria claimed even Eternity as especially her own.
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