“You see, it’s not Jackman, or Thompson, or any one like that,” he exclaimed. “It’s some one real.”
“But nice,” she assured him, “some one who comes to take care of you and see that you’re all safe and cosy.”
“Oh, yes, I know that. But——”
“I think your father’s right,” she added quickly. “It’s Sleep, I’m sure, who pops in round the door like that. Sleep has got wings, I’ve always heard.”
“Then the other thing—the little ones?” he asked. “Are they just sorts of dozes, you think?”
Mother did not answer for a moment. She turned down the page of her book, closed it slowly, put it on the table beside her. More slowly still she put her knitting away, arranging the wool and needles with some deliberation.
“Perhaps,” she said, drawing the boy closer to her and looking into his big eyes of wonder, “they’re dreams!”
Tim felt a thrill run through him as she said it. He stepped back a foot or so and clapped his hands softly. “Dreams!” he whispered with enthusiasm and belief; “of course! I never thought of that.”
His mother, having proved her sagacity, then made a mistake. She noted her success, but instead of leaving it there, she elaborated and explained. As Tim expressed it she “went on about it.” Therefore he did not listen. He followed his train of thought alone. And presently, he interrupted her long sentences with a conclusion of his own:
“Then I know where She hides,” he announced with a touch of awe. “Where She lives, I mean.” And without waiting to be asked, he imparted the information: “It’s in the Other Wing.”