They have been long preparing.
They fall with a clap; and people call them sudden and exclaim, "How
strange!" But it is only the discovery and recognition that are
sudden. It all has happened already long ago--happened before. The
faint sense of familiarity betrays it. It is there the strangeness
lies.
And it was this delicate fragrance of an uncommunicable strangeness
that floated in the air when Uncle Felix and the children came down to
breakfast that Sunday morning and heard the sound of bells in the wind
across the fields. They came down punctually for a wonder, too; Maria,
last but not actually late, brought the alarum clock with her. "It's
going," she stated quietly, and handed it to her brother.
Tim took it without a word, looked at it, shook it, listened to its
ticking against his ear, then set it on the mantelpiece where it
belonged. He seemed pleased to have it in his possession again, yet
something puzzled him. An expression of wonder flitted across his
face; the eyes turned upwards; he frowned; there was an effort in him
--to remember something. He turned to Maria who was already deep in
porridge.
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