Then there were stealthy movements about the two figures. Birds, thrushes, chaffinches, sparrows, hopped across the grass. A pigeon cooed softly above his head; two rabbits peeped out from the undergrowth. They grew bolder, and a sparrow, its head on one side, hopped on to Janet’s dress. More rabbits came, and the pigeon, with a soft whirr of its wings, swept down to Morelli’s feet. The grass was soon dotted with birds, a squirrel ran down a tree-trunk and stayed, with its tail in the air, to listen. The birds grew bolder and hopped on to Morelli’s knee; a sparrow stood for a moment on Morelli’s head and then flew away. Janet showed no astonishment at these things. She had often seen her father play to the animals before, and they had come. Suddenly he piped a shrill, discordant note, and with a whirr of their wings the birds had vanished and the rabbits disappeared. He put his flute into his pocket. “It’s nearly four o’clock,” he said. “Father,” she said as they went down the hill, “can other people do that? Make the birds and animals come?” “No,” he said. “Why not? What is it that you do?” “It’s nothing that I do,” he said. “It’s what I am. Don’t you worry your head about that, my dear. Only don’t say that anything’s impossible. ‘There’s more in Heaven and earth than is dreamed of in the philosophy’ of those folks who think that they know such a lot. Don’t ever disbelieve anything, my dear. Everything’s true, and a great deal more as well.” Meanwhile Tony dragged a reluctant Maradick to tea. “They don’t want me,” he said, “you’ll be making me hideously unpopular, Tony, if you keep dragging me there.”