"Not unless the people who frightened them come to their rescue and run the risk of being caught themselves."
As she spoke there rose from the depths of the house the sound of muffled voices, children's voices singing faintly together; it rose and fell exactly like the wind, and with as little tune; it was weird and magical, but so utterly mournful that the boy felt the tears start to his eyes. It drifted away, too, just as the wind does over the tops of the trees, dying into the distance; and all became still again.
"It's just like the wind," he said, "and I do love the wind. It makes me feel so sad and so happy. Why is it?"
The governess did not answer.
"How old am I really?" he went on. "How can I be so old and so ignorant? I've forgotten such an awful lot of knowledge."
"The fact is—well, perhaps, you won't quite understand—but you're really two ages at once. Sometimes you feel as old as your body, and sometimes as old as your soul. You're still connected with your body; so you get the sensations of both mixed up."
"Then is the body younger than the soul?"
"The soul—that is yourself," she answered, "is, oh, so old, awfully old, as old as the stars, and older. But the body is no older than itself—of course, how could it be?"
"Of course," repeated the boy, who was not listening to a word she said. "How could it be?"
"But it doesn't matter how old you are or how young you feel, as long as you don't hate me for having frightened you," she said after a pause. "That's the chief thing."