Up it went and they heard the metallic tapping above them. Then the high voice came from above:
“Clever Daddy! Daddy got fishing-rod and put trumpet up to ceiling. But how Daddy make the voice, eh? What you say, pretty English Missy? Here is present from Wee One.”
Something soft dropped on Enid’s lap. She put her hand down and felt it.
“It’s a flower—a chrysanthemum. Thank you, Wee One!”
“An apport?” asked Mailey.
“No, no, Mr. Mailey,” said Bolsover. “They were in the vase on the harmonium. Speak to her, Miss Challenger. Keep the vibrations going.”
“Who are you, Wee One?” asked Enid, looking up at the moving spot above her.
“I am little black girl. Eight-year-old little black girl.”
“Oh, come, dear,” said mother in her rich, coaxing voice. “You were eight when you came to us first, and that was years ago.”
“Years ago to you. All one time to me. I to do my job as eight-year child. When job done then Wee One become Big One all in one day. No time here, same as you have. I always eight year old.”