Giles tried once more.
‘It’s Father speaking,’ said he presently, his voice atremble—‘talking about me.’
There was a minute’s silence while the boy listened and his sister waited.
‘Well?’ said she when at length he set the shell down. ‘What did he say about you?’
‘Oh—er—nothing important,’ said the boy with a frown. ‘Sometimes I think Father doesn’t understand me very well. He might have had a worse son. “It’s too bad that good-for-nothing boy has gone to bed,” he was saying. “I can’t find my big hammer anywhere. He would soon find it for me. The only thing Giles was ever any good for was finding things.” ’
‘Never mind,’ said Anne. ‘Be thankful that you’re good for something. Now it’s my turn, Giles. Let me listen. I think this is a splendid game, don’t you?’
‘Er—yes,’ said her brother, pushing the shell across to her. ‘But it depends on what you hear.’
Already Anne had the shell clasped tightly to her ear.
‘The sea!’ she murmured. ‘The old sea, mumbling and tossing, hissing and washing.’
And she began to hum a little tune of her own as she rocked to and fro to that song of the waves. Then, suddenly, she stopped. A smile spread over her face. Her eyes sparkled as she pressed the shell still closer against her ear. At last, slowly, she put it back upon the table with a deep sigh.