"But they're not fancies, Sybil," said Carrots, gravely, turning his great brown eyes on his cousin. "The hills have got lots of different faces: that one up there, the one with the round knobby top, has looked quite different several times this morning. First it looked smiley and smooth, and then it got all cross and wrinkly, and now it looks as if it was going to sleep."
Sybil stared up at the hill he was pointing to. "I see what you mean," she said; "but it's only the shadows of the clouds."
"That's pretty," said Carrots: "who told you that, Sybil? I never thought of clouds having shadows."
"Nobody told me," said Sybil; "I finded it out my own self. I find out lots of things," she continued, importantly. "I dare say it's because of my name—papa says my name means I should find out things, like a sort of a fairy, you know."
"Does it?" said Carrots, in a rather awe-struck tone. "I should like that. When you were little, Sybil," he continued, "were you ever frightened of shadows? I was."
"No," said Sybil, "I only thought they were funny. And once papa told me a story of a shadow that ran away from its master. It went across the street, at night, you know, when the lamps were lighted: there were houses opposite, you see, and the shadow went into such a beautiful house, and wouldn't come back again!"
"And what after that?" said both Floss and Carrots in a breath.
"Oh, I can't tell it you all," said Sybil; "you must ask papa."
"Does he often tell you stories?" asked Floss.
"Bits," said Sybil; "he doesn't tell them all through, like mother. But he's very nice about answering things I ask him. He doesn't say 'you couldn't understand,' or 'you'll know when you're older,' that horrid way."