'Yes, it's quite all right like that,' added Jimbo. And without more ado they took his arms and pulled him out of the forest. And Henry Rogers heard something deep, deep down within himself echo the verdict. 'I think it is all right.' On the way home there were no puddles, but there were three pairs of eyes--and the stars were uncommonly thick overhead. The children asked him almost as many questions as there were clusters of them between the summits of Boudry and La Tourne. All three went floundering in that giant Net. It was so different, too, from anything they had been accustomed to. Their father's stories, answers, explanations, and the like, were ineffective because they always felt he did not quite believe them himself even while he gave them. He did not think he believed them, that is. But Cousin Henry talked of stars and star- stuff as though he had some in his pocket at the moment. And, of course, he had. For otherwise they would not have listened. He could not have held their attention. They especially liked the huge, ridiculous words he used, because such words concealed great mysteries that pulsed with wonder and exquisitely wound them up. Daddy made things too clear. The bones of impossibility were visible. They saw thin nakedness behind the explanations, till the sense of wonder faded. They were not babies to be fed with a string of one-syllable words! Jimbo kept silence mostly, his instinct ever being to conceal his ignorance; but Monkey talked fifteen to the dozen, filling the pauses with long 'ohs' and bursts of laughter and impudent observations. Yet her cheeky insolence never crossed the frontier where it could be resented. Her audacity stopped short of impertinence. 'There's a point beyond which--' her cousin would say gravely, when she grew more daring than usual; and, while answering 'It'll stick into you, then, not into me,' she yet withdrew from the borders of impertinence at once. 'What is star-stuff really then?' she asked. 'The primordial substance of the universe,' he answered solemnly, no whit ashamed of his inaccuracy. 'Ah yes!' piped Jimbo, quietly. _Ecole primaire_ he understood. This must be something similar. 'But what does it do, I mean, and why is it good for people to have it in them--on them--whatever it is?' she inquired. 'It gives sympathy and insight; it's so awfully subtle and delicate,' he answered. 'A little of it travels down on every ray and soaks down into you. It makes you feel inclined to stick to other people and understand them. That's sympathy.' '_Sympathie_,' said Jimbo for his sister's benefit apparently, but in reality because he himself was barely treading water. 'But sympathy,' the other went on, 'is no good without insight--which means seeing things as others see them--from inside. That's insight--- ' 'Inside sight,' she corrected him.