"Dorothy saw him first--"
"Nicky let him in--"
"He hadn't got a hat on."
"We kept him in the schoolroom till Nanna could come and put him to bed."
"He was crying because he'd been to Grannie's house and there wasn't anybody there--"
"And because he'd lost the love-birds he'd brought for Auntie Emmy--"
"And because he couldn't remember which of us was dead."
"No, Mummy, nobody's seen him but us and Nanna."
"Nanna's with him now."
Uncle Morrie never accounted, even to himself, for the time he had spent between the arrival of his ship at Tilbury on Sunday morning and that Saturday afternoon. Neither could he remember what had become of his luggage or whether he had ever had any. Only the County Council man, going his last rounds in the farthest places of the Heath, came upon a small bundle tied in a blue handkerchief, a cap belonging to E.D. Boulger, of the S.S. Arizona, a cage of love-birds, and a distinct impression of a recumbent human form, on the grass together, under a young birch tree.