"Tim's clock," she realised, "but I've got it." There was no
expression on her face whatever. Another child might have taken the
trouble--felt interested, at any rate--to try and see what time it
was. But Maria, aware that the dim light would make this a difficult
and tedious operation, did nothing of the sort. It could make no
difference anyhow to any one, anywhere! She was content to know that
it was some time or other, and that the clock was going again. Her
plan of life was: interfere with nothing. She did not know, therefore,
that the hands pointed with accuracy to 4 A. M., because she merely
did not care to know. But, not caring to know placed her on a loftier
platform of intelligence than the rest of the world--certainly above
that of her sister, Judy, who was snoring softly among the shadows
just across the room. Maria didn't know that she didn't know. No one
could rebuke her with "You might have known," much less "You didn't
know,"--because she didn't know she didn't know! It was the biggest
kind of knowledge in the world. Maria had it.
But before she actually regained her absolute centre, and long before
she lost sight of herself within its depths, dim thoughts came
floating through her mind like pictures that moonlight paints upon
high summer clouds.
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