The
excitement in the passage belonged to some dim Yesterday--almost when
they were little.
They began immediately to talk _at_ the Stranger in the room.
"I didn't _hear_ anybody come," remarked Tim, as he mixed cream and
demerara sugar inside an artificial pool of porridge, "but it's all
the same--now. Our Somebody's here all right." And then, between
gulps, he added, "The swallows laid an awful lot of eggs in the night,
I think."
"On tiptoe just at dawn," remarked Judy casually, following her own
train of thought, and intent upon chasing a slippery poached egg round
and round her plate at the same time. "The birds were awake, of
course."
The birds! As she said it, a memory of some faint, exquisite dream, of
years and years ago it seemed, fled also on tiptoe through the bright,
still air, and through three listening hearts as well. The robin, the
swallows, and the up-and-under bird made secret signs and vanished.
"They know everything first, of course," said Uncle Felix aloud;
"they're up so early, aren't they?" To himself he said, "I'm dreaming!
This is a dream!" his reason still fluttering a little before it died.
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