At last, they began to take shape, tenuously at first, then of fuller body, each bringing its own setting, its own atmospheric suggestion—whether of dove-feathered Irish cloud and fresh greensward, sudden downpour, or equally sudden clearing, with continual leafy drip, drip, drip, in the midst of brilliant sunshine.
For Margaret O'Brien, ardent summer sunlight seemed suddenly to pervade the cool, orderly little bed-chamber. Then, 'Here she is!' and a wee girl of four danced into view, wearing a dress of pink print, very tight at the top and very full at the bottom. She led the way to a tiny new house whence issued the cheery voice of hammers. Lumber and tools were lying round; from within came men's voices. The small girl stamped up the steps and looked in. Then she made for the narrow stair.
'Where's Margaret gone to?' said one of the men. 'The upper floor's not finished. It's falling through the young one will be.'
'Peggy!' called the older man. 'Come down here with you.'
There was a delighted squeal. The pink dress appeared at the head of the stairs. 'Oh, the funny little man, daddy! Such a funny little old man with a high hat! Come quick, let you, and see him.'
The two men ran to the stairs.
'Where is he?'
She turned back and pointed. Then her face fell. 'Gone! the little man is gone!'
Her father laughed and picked her up in his arms. 'How big was he, Peg? As big as yourself, I wonder?'
'No, no! Small.'