“Never mind about the word; tell me what next will happen to Blunty.”
“He will wake one morning and find himself a giant—not like you, good giant, but like any other bad giant. You will hardly know him, but I will tell you which. He will think he has been a giant always, and will not know you, or any of us. The giants have lost themselves, Peony says, and that is why they never smile. I wonder whether they are not glad because they are bad, or bad because they are not glad. But they can’t be glad when they have no babies! I wonder what BAD means, good giant!”
“I wish I knew no more about it than you!” I returned. “But I try to be good, and mean to keep on trying.”
“So do I—and that is how I know you are good.”
A long pause followed.
“Then you do not know where the babies come from into the wood?” I said, making one attempt more.
“There is nothing to know there,” she answered. “They are in the wood; they grow there.”
“Then how is it you never find one before it is quite grown?” I asked.
She knitted her brows and was silent a moment:
“They’re not there till they’re finished,” she said.