starlight gathers.'

'Which direction?' she asked, with the yellow whistle to her lips
ready to signal the driver.

'Oh, out there--to the north-west,' he answered, 'to the mountains of
--across the Channel.'

But this was not precise enough. Formerly he had always given very
precise directions.

'Name, please,' she urged, 'but quickly. The Interfering Sun, you
know--there's no time to lose. We shall be meeting the Morning Spiders
soon.'

The Morning Spiders! How it all came back! The Morning Spiders that
fly over the fields in the dawn upon their private threads of gossamer
and fairy cotton.

He remembered that, as children, they had never actually found this
Star Cave, for the Interfering Sun had always come too soon and spoilt
it all.

'Name, please, and do hurry up. We can't hover here all night,' rang
in his ears.

And he made a plunge. He suddenly thought of Bourcelles, the little
village in the Jura mountains, where he and his cousin had spent a
year learning French. The idea flashed into him probably because it
contained mountains, caves, and children. His cousin lived there now