carrying a cup, full up to the brim of something. And she mustn't let it
spill. What was it so full of? Aunt Hetty's peacefulness, maybe.

Or maybe just because it was beginning to get twilight. That always made
you feel as though something was being poured softly into you, that you
mustn't spill. She was glad the side-road was so grass-grown. You could
walk on it, so still, like this, and never make a sound.

She thought again of Father and wished he would come home. She _liked_
Father. He was solid. He was solid like that solid earth she liked so
much to walk on. It was just such a comfort to feel him. Father was like
the solid ground and Mother was like the floaty clouds. Why, yes, they
were _every_ way like what she had been thinking about. . . . Father was
the warm sun on the outside, and Mother was the cool wind on the inside.
Father was the end that was tied tight and firm so you _knew_ you
couldn't lose it, and Mother was the end that streamed out like flags in
the wind. But they weren't either of them like that slinky, swirly
water, licking at you, in such a hurry to get on past you and get what
it was scrambling to get, whatever that was.

Well, of all things! There was old Mr. Welles, coming towards her. _He_
must be out taking a walk too. How slowly he went! And kept looking up
the way she and Aunt Hetty had, at the sky and the mountains. He was
quite close now. Why . . . why, he didn't know she was there. He had gone
right by her and never even saw her and yet had been so close she could
see his face plainly. He must have been looking very hard at the
mountains. But it wasn't hard the way he was looking, it was soft. How
soft his face had looked, almost quivery, almost. . . . But that was silly
to think of . . . almost as though he felt like crying. And yet all
shining and quiet, too, as if he'd been in church.