colour, here something round and hard that was cool to touch, now a
gleaming rod that ran high into the air, now a shape very soft and warm
against which it was pleasant to lean. The clouds, the sweep of dim
colour, the vast horizons of that other world yielded, day by day, to
little concrete things--a patch of carpet, the leg of a chair, the
shadow of the fire, clouds beyond the window, buttons on some one's
clothes, the rails of his cot. Then there were voices, the touch of
hands, some one's soft hair, some one who sang little songs to him.

He woke early one morning and realised the rattle that his grandmother
had given to him. He suddenly realised it. He grasped the handle of it
with his hand and found this cool and pleasant to touch. He then, by
accident, made it tinkle, and instantly the prettiest noise replied to
him. He shook it more lustily and the response was louder. He was, it
seemed, master of this charming thing and could force it to do what he
wished. He appealed to his Friend. Was not this a charming thing that he
had found? He waved it and chuckled and crowed, and then his toes,
sticking out beyond the bed-clothes, were nipped by the cold so that he
halloed loudly. Perhaps the rattle had nipped his toes. He did not know,
but he would cry because that eased his feelings.

That morning there came with his grandmother and mother a silly young
woman who had, it was supposed, a great way with babies. "I adore
babies," she said. "We understand one another in the most wonderful
way."

Henry Fitzgeorge looked at her as she leaned over the cot and made faces
at him. "Goo-goo-gum-goo," she cried.

"What is all this?" he asked his Friend. He laid down the rattle, and