And a thin, plaintive voice, like the voice of her long-forgotten youth, slipped out between her faded lips—and positively sang:
"The world is young with laughter; we can fly
Among the imprisoned hours as we choose…."
But to Tim and Judy it all seemed merely right and natural.
"Come on," cried the boy, pulling his Aunt towards the wood.
"We can look together now. You've got your sign," exclaimed Judy, tugging at her other hand. "Everything's free and careless, and so are we."
"Aim for a path," Tim shouted by way of a concession. "Aunty'll go quicker on a path."
But Aunty was nothing if not decided. "I know a short-cut," she sang.
"Paths are for people who don't know the way. There's no time—to lose.
Dear me! I'm warm already!" She dropped her umbrella.
And, actually dancing and singing, she led the way into the wood, holding the fern before her like a wand, and happy as a girl let out of school.
But as they went, Judy, knowing suddenly another thing she didn't know, made a discovery of her own, an immense discovery. It was bigger than anything Tim had ever found. She felt so light and swift and winged by it that she seemed almost to melt into the air herself.
"I say, Tim," she said.