Consciousness ran
fluttering along the edge of something hard that hitherto had seemed
an unsurpassable barrier. The barrier melted and let him through.
He rubbed his eyes and started. "That's the clock in Mrs. Horton's
kitchen," he tried to say, but the words had an empty and ridiculous
sound, as if there was no meaning in them. They flew about him in the
air like little butterflies trying to settle. They settled on one
meaning, only to flit elsewhere the next minute and settle on another
meaning. They could mean anything and everything. They did mean
everything. They meant _one_ thing. Finally they settled back into his
heart. And their meaning caught him by the throat in a most delicious
way. The air was full of tiny fluttering wings; he heard pattering
feet and little voices; hair tied with coloured ribbons brushed his
cheeks; and laughing, mischievous eyes like stars floated loose about
the ceiling. The Kitchen Spell grew mighty--irresistible... rising
over him out of a timeless Long Ago.
From the direction of the ghostly towel-horse it seemed to come. But
beyond the towel-horse was the window, and beyond the window lay the
open fields, and beyond the fields lay miles and miles of country
asleep beneath the stars; and this country stretched without a break
right up to the lonely wolds of distant Yorkshire where an old grey
house contained another kitchen, silent and deserted in the night.
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