"Why, Nelson, of course," said Selina, shortly, still looking
restlessly around for help or suggestion.

"But he's--he's DEAD, isn't he?" asked Harold, slightly
puzzled.

"What's that got to do with it?" retorted his sister, resuming
her caged-lion promenade.

Harold was somewhat taken aback. In the case of the pig, for
instance, whose last outcry had now passed into stillness, he had
considered the chapter as finally closed. Whatever innocent
mirth the holidays might hold in store for Edward, that
particular pig, at least, would not be a contributor. And now he
was given to understand that the situation had not materially
changed! He would have to revise his ideas, it seemed.
Sitting up on end, he looked towards the garden for assistance in
the task. Thence, even as he gazed, a tiny column of smoke rose
straight up into the still air. The gardener had been sweeping
that afternoon, and now, an unconscious priest, was offering his
sacrifice of autumn leaves to the calm-eyed goddess of changing
hues and chill forebodings who was moving slowly about the land
that golden afternoon. Harold was up and off in a moment,
forgetting Nelson, forgetting the pig, the mole, the Larkin
betrayal, and Selina's strange fever of conscience. Here was
fire, real fire, to play with, and that was even better than
messing with water, or remodelling the plastic surface of the
earth. Of all the toys the world provides for right-minded
persons, the original elements rank easily the first.