her half enough! He took the letter out, and frowned at it horribly. Why
could he not feel more? What was the matter with him? Why was he such
a brute--not to be thinking of her day and night? For long he stood,
disconsolate, in the little dark greenhouse among the images of his
beasts, the letter in his hand.

He stole out presently, and got down to the river unobserved.
Comforting--that crisp, gentle sound of water; ever so comforting to
sit on a stone, very still, and wait for things to happen round you. You
lost yourself that way, just became branches, and stones, and water,
and birds, and sky. You did not feel such a beast. Gordy would never
understand why he did not care for fishing--one thing trying to catch
another--instead of watching and understanding what things were. You
never got to the end of looking into water, or grass or fern; always
something queer and new. It was like that, too, with yourself, if you
sat down and looked properly--most awfully interesting to see things
working in your mind.

A soft rain had begun to fall, hissing gently on the leaves, but he
had still a boy's love of getting wet, and stayed where he was, on the
stone. Some people saw fairies in woods and down in water, or said they
did; that did not seem to him much fun. What was really interesting was
noticing that each thing was different from every other thing, and what
made it so; you must see that before you could draw or model decently.
It was fascinating to see your creatures coming out with shapes of
their very own; they did that without your understanding how. But this
vacation he was no good--couldn't draw or model a bit!

A jay had settled about forty yards away, and remained in full view,
attending to his many-coloured feathers. Of all things, birds were