“Perhaps I should have told you about my husband’s brother,” Mrs. Riker continued. “He and my husband were boys when they quarreled—”
“What was that?” Honey whispered suddenly, moving closer to Horace. “Did you hear a footstep?” She shivered and he put his coat around her. The rain seemed to be turning to snow. Unmindful of it, the children continued to gaze up at the statue.
“Did it move?” Judy heard Paul whisper.
“It’s the light, Paul,” his mother said. “It’s really made of cement.”
“The same as sidewalks?”
“I think so. Anyway, it isn’t alive. It didn’t move, and it couldn’t have spoken to us.”
“Something did.”
Judy looked suspiciously at Horace. Had he learned to throw his voice? That could be the answer to the talking trees as well—except that Horace hadn’t been there.
“Oh dear!” thought Judy. “I’m off on the wrong trail again.”
“Let’s go,” Honey suggested. “I’m cold.”