He felt it this morning very
vividly. It seemed familiar somehow--like his own childhood recovered
almost.
He answered them accordingly. It didn't matter what was said, because
all the words in the world said one thing only. Whether the words,
therefore, made sense or not, was of no importance.
"Have you ever seen a rabbit come _out_ of its hole?" asked Tim. "They
do that for safety," he added; and if there was confusion in his
language, there was none in his thought. "Then no one can tell which
its hole is, you see. Because each rabbit--"
He broke off and glanced expectantly at his uncle. At junctures like
this his uncle usually cleared things up with an easy word or two. He
would not fail him now.
"Come _out_, no," was the reply; "no one ever sees a rabbit come out.
But I've seen them go _in_; and that's the same thing in the end. They
go down the wrong hole on purpose. _They_ know right enough. Rabbits
are rabbits."
"Of course," exclaimed Judy, "everything's itself and knows its own
sign--er--business, I mean."
"Yes," Maria repeated.
And before anything further could be mentioned--if there _was_
anything to mention--they arrived at the porch of the church, passed
under it without speaking, walked up the aisle and took their places
in the family pew, Maria occupying the comfortable corner against the
inner wall.
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