But he kept his secret about the robin tightly in its hiding-place.
"Before they've happened--_really_," Tim mentioned. "They do a thing
to-morrow long before to-morrow's come." He knew something the others
could not possibly know.
"Everything comes from the air, you see," advanced Judy, secure in the
memory of her private morning interview. "But it can disappear under--
underneath when it wants to."
"Or into a hole," agreed Tim.
And somebody in that breakfast-room, somebody besides themselves,
heard every word they spoke, listened attentively, and understood the
meanings they thought they hid so cleverly. They knew, moreover, that
he did so.
"Let's pretend," Tim suddenly exclaimed, catching his sister's eye
just as it was wandering into the pot of home-made marmalade.
"All right," she said at once, "same as usual, I suppose?"
Tim nodded, glancing across the table. "Sitting next to _you_, Uncle"
--he pointed to the unoccupied chair and unused plate--"in that empty
place."
"Thank you," murmured the man, still hovering between reality and
dream. He said it shyly. It was all too marvellous to ask questions
about, he felt.
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