"It didn't stick," she said.

"What didn't?" asked Sara. Her words may not sound very polite; but if
you could have heard the awe and wonder in her little voice you would
have pardoned her.

"The poem," said Avrillia. What was it her voice was like?
Sheep-bells? Sheep-bells, that was it. Sheep-bells across an English
down--at twilight! Sara had never seen more than three sheep in her
life; and those three didn't wear bells; and she had never heard of a
down. And yet, Avrillia's voice sounded to Sara exactly as I have
said.

Moreover, it drew Sara softly to her side. Her dress smelled like
isthagaria; and it was very soft to touch. For Sara touched it as
confidingly as she would her own mother's.

At that Avrillia seemed to remember her. Sara saw at once that
Avrillia never remembered anybody very long at a time. She was kind,
and her smile was entrancingly sweet; but her mind always seemed to be
on something else. Probably on her poetry, Sara decided.

Now, however, she remembered Sara, and asked, "Would you like to look
over?"

"What's down there?" Sara could not help asking.

"Nothing. Would you like to see it?"