They carried flowers in their arms, they moved lightly and quickly--it
was uncommonly like dancing--and their voices floated through the
woodland spaces with a sound that, if it was not singing, was at least
an excellent imitation--an attempt to sing!
"They're not lost," said Tim, as they disappeared from view. "They're
just looking--for the way."
"The way home," said Judy. "And they're following some one--who knows
it."
"Yes," added Maria. For another figure, more like a tree moving in the
wind than anything else, and certainly looking differently to each of
them--another figure was seen in advance of the group, seen in
flashes, as it were, and only glimpses of it discernible among the
world of moving green. This other figure was singing too; snatches of
wild sweet music floated through the quiet wood--one said the singing
of a bird, another, the wind, a third, the rippling murmur of the
stream--but, to one and all, an enchanting and enticing sound. And, to
one and all, familiar too, with the familiarity of a half-remembered
dream.
And a flood of memory rose about them as they watched and listened, a
tide that carried them away with it into the heart of something they
knew, yet had forgotten.
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