“It isn’t; it’s our own crest, that’s on the spoons and things. It’s our own old family mole that’s our crest. How can it be a common mole? It’s all golden.”
And, even as she spoke, it left off being golden. For the last bit of sun dipped behind the shoulder of the downs, and in the grey twilight that was left the mole was white—any one could see that.
“Oh!” said Elfrida—but she stuck to her point. “So you see,” she went on, “it can’t be just a really-mole. Really-moles are black.”
“Well,” said Edred, “it’s very tame. I will say that.”
“Well——” Edred was beginning; but at that same moment the mole also, suddenly and astonishingly, said, “Well?”
There was a hushed pause. Then——
“Did you say that?” Elfrida whispered.
“No,” said Edred, “you did.”
“Don’t whisper, now,” said the mole; “’tain’t purty manners, so I tells ’ee.”
With one accord the two children came to their knees, one on each side of the white mole.