Sara drew nearer the balustrade, full of awe, and uncertain whether
she wished to look or not. But presently curiosity got the better of
her, and she leaned over the balustrade and looked down into Nothing.
It was very gray.

"Do you throw your poems down there?" she asked of Avrillia, in
inexpressible wonder.

"Of course," said Avrillia. "I write them on rose-leaves, you know--"

"Oh, yes!" breathed Sara. She still thought she had never heard of
anything that sounded lovelier than poems written on rose-leaves.

"Petals, I mean, of course," continued Avrillia, "all colors, but
especially blue. And then I drop them over, and some day one of them
may stick on the bottom--"

"But there isn't any bottom," said Sara, lifting eyes like black
pansies for wonder.

"No, there's no real bottom," conceded Avrillia, patiently, "but
there's an imaginary bottom. One might stick on that, you know. And
then, with that to build to, if I drop them in very fast, I may be
able to fill it up--"

"But there aren't any sides to it, either!" objected Sara, even more
wonderingly.

Avrillia betrayed a faint exasperation (it showed a little around the
edges, like a green petticoat under a black dress). "Oh, these literal