'They have survived, then,' said Daddy with decision. 'The sweetness of this place has stimulated them afresh. The children'--he glanced suspiciously at his wife for a moment--'have appropriated them too. It's a powerful combination. After a pause he added, 'I might develop that idea in my story--that you've brought back the sweet creations of childhood with you and captured us all--a sort of starry army.' 'Why not?' interpolated Mother, as who should say there was no harm in _that_. 'They certainly have been full of mischief lately.' 'Creation _is_ mischievous,' murmured her husband. 'But since you have come,' he continued aloud,--'how can I express it exactly?--the days have seemed larger, fuller, deeper, the forest richer and more mysterious, the sky much closer, and the stars more soft and intimate. I dream of them, and they all bring me messages that help my story. Do you know what I mean? There were days formerly, when life seemed empty, thin, peaked, impoverished, its scale of values horribly reduced, whereas now--since you've been up to your nonsense with the children--some tide stands at the full, and things are always happening.' 'Well, really, Daddy!' said the expression on Mother's face and hands and knitting-needles, 'you _are_ splendid to-day'; but aloud she only repeated her little hold-all phrase, 'Why not?' Yet somehow he recognised that she understood him better than usual. Her language had not changed--things in Mother worked slowly, from within outwards as became her solid personality--but it held new meaning. He felt for the first time that he could make her understand, and more--that she was ready to understand. That is, he felt new sympathy with her. It was very delightful, stimulating; he instantly loved her more, and felt himself increased at the same time. 'I believe a story like that might even sell,' he observed, with a hint of reckless optimism. 'People might recognise a touch of their own childhood in it, eh?' He longed for her to encourage him and pat him on the back. 'True,' said Mother, smiling at him, 'for every one likes to keep in touch with their childhood--if they can. It makes one feel young and hopeful--jolly; doesn't it? Why not?' Their eyes met. Something, long put aside and buried under a burden of exaggerated care, flashed deliciously between them. Rogers caught it flying and felt happy. Bridges were being repaired, if not newly built. 'Nature, you see, is always young really,' he said; 'it's full of children. The very meaning of the word, eh, John?' turning to his cousin as who should say, 'We knew our grammar once.' '_Natura_, yes--something about to produce.' They laughed in their superior knowledge of a Latin word, but Mother, stirred deeply though she hardly knew why, was not to be left out. Would the bridge bear her, was perhaps her thought.