"Lost something, have you?" the Tramp enquired genially at length; and
the slow, leisurely way he said it, the curious half-singing utterance
he used, the words falling from his great beard with this sound as of
wind through leaves or water over sand and pebbles--somehow included
them in the rhythm of existence to which he himself naturally
belonged. They all seemed part of the garden, part of the day, part of
the sun and earth and flowers together, marvellously linked and caught
within some common purpose. Question and answer in the ordinary sense
were wrong and useless. They must _feel_--feel as he did--to find what
they sought.
It was Uncle Felix who presently replied: "Something--we've--mis-laid,"
he said hesitatingly, as though a little ashamed that he expressed the
truth so lamely.
"Mis-laid?" asked the Tramp. "Mis-laid, eh?"
"Forgotten," put in Tim.
"Mis-laid or forgotten," repeated the other. "That all?"
"Some_body_, I should have said," explained Uncle Felix yet still
falteringly, "somebody we've lost, that is."
"Hiding," Tim said quickly.
"About," added Judy. There was a hush in all their voices.
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