We couldn't see the Headland
light, and I was rather glad, because it had made me almost crazy,
flashing and flashing so steadily and not caring a bit.
The rain went _plop_ into the pools, and made a flattish, spattery
sound on the rock. I don't know why I thought of the "Air Religieux"
just then, but I suppose it was because of the rain. I could see the
straight yellow candle-flames all blue around the wick, and Father's
head tucked down looking at the 'cello, and his hands, nice and
strong, playing it; then I got a little mixed and heard him calling
"Christi-ine," fainter and fainter. I think I must have been almost
asleep, because I know the real rain surprised me, like something
I'd forgotten, and a very sharp, cornery rock was poking into my
back.
It was then that Greg said:
"Want--Simpson."
That frightened me more than anything almost, for Simpson was a sort
of stuffed flannel duck-thing that he'd had when he was very little,
and he hadn't thought of it for years. None of us ever knew why he
called it "Simpson," but he adored the thing and made it sleep
beside him in the crib every night. But that was when he was three,
and "Simpson" had been for ages on the top shelf where we keep the
toys that we think we'll play with again sometime before we're
really grown up. We never have done it yet, but there are certain
ones that we couldn't possibly give away, not even to the
Deservingest poor children.
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