The children were back in their attic. It was a little later than their usual hour for going to bed. On the way home the cat had kept them running fast, as though it knew they were not going to be in time for supper and would be blamed for their lateness. But no one except the cook had remarked on it, and they had got safely upstairs without a scolding.
‘What do you make of it, Giles,’ Anne asked, ‘her going off like that and leaving us alone on the shore?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said the boy. ‘She had other business to attend to, I suppose. What I’m interested in is this thing she left with us.’
And he drew from his pocket the big green shell and laid it gently on the table between himself and his sister.
‘ Isn’t it beautiful?’ said Anne. ‘Let me listen to it. I’d like to hear the roaring of the sea.’
She took it and held it to her ear.
‘Wonderful!’ she said presently. ‘The sea could almost be pouring through the room here. It’s much better than any shell I ever tried before. You can nearly smell the salt water, the flying spray ... Now it stops ... It’s growing warm—hotter and hotter, Giles—Oh, will it hurt me?’
‘No, no,’ said her brother quickly. ‘Hang on. For pity’s sake, don’t drop it! You heard Agnes say it would never grow hot enough to hurt you.’
With grim determination Anne still held it to her ear. And presently a queer look came into her face.
‘Why,’ said she breathlessly ... ‘I hear someone talking about me ... It’s the cook. She says I left an awful mess of crumbs beneath the table tonight. It isn’t true.’ (Anne took the shell away from her ear and scowled across the table at her brother.) ‘Those were your crumbs, Giles. I never drop crumbs on the floor—at least hardly ever ... Oh, now it grows cold again.’