For the birth of wonder is a marvellous, sweet thing, but the recognition of it is sweeter and more marvellous still. Its growth, perhaps, shall measure the growth and increase of the soul to whom it is as eyes and hands and feet, searching the world for signs of hiding Reality. But its persistence--through the heavier years that would obliterate it--this persistence shall offer hints of something coming that is more than marvellous. The beginning of wisdom is surely--Wonder. CHAPTER III DEATH OF A MERE FACT There was a man named Jinks. In him was neither fancy, imagination, nor a sign of wonder, and so he--died. But, though he appears in this chapter, he disappears again so quickly that his being mentioned in a sentence all by himself should not lead any one astray. Jinks made a false entry, as it were. The children crossed him out at once. He became illegible. For the trio had their likes and dislikes; they resented liberties being taken with them. Also, when there was no one to tell them stories, they were quite able to amuse themselves. It was the inactive yet omnipotent Maria who brought about indirectly the obliteration of Mr. Jinks. And it came about as follows: Maria was a podgy child of marked individuality. It was said that she was seven years old, but _she_ declared that eight was the figure, because some uncle or other had explained, "you're in your eighth year." Wandering uncles are troublesome in this kind of way. Every time her age was mentioned she corrected the informant. She had a trick of moving her eyes without moving her head, as though the round face was difficult to turn; but her big blue eyes slipped round without the least trouble, as though oiled. The performance gave her the sly and knowing aspect of a goblin, but she had no objection to that, for it saved her trouble, and to save herself trouble--according to nurses, Authorities, and the like--was her sole object in existence. Yet this seemed a mistaken view of the child. It was not so much that she did not move unnecessarily as that it was not necessary for her to move at all, since she invariably found herself in the middle of whatever was going on. While life bustled anxiously about her, hurrying to accomplish various ends, she remained calm and contented at the centre, completely satisfied, mistress of it all. And her face was symbolic of her entire being; whereas so many faces seem unfinished, hers was complete--globular like the heavenly bodies, circular like the sun, arms and legs unnecessary. The best of everything came to her _because_ she did not run after it. There was no hurry. Time did not worry her. Circular and self-sustaining, she already seemed to dwell in Eternity. "And this little person," one of these inquisitive, interfering visitors would ask, smiling fatuously; "how old is she, I wonder?" "Seven," was the answer of the Authority in charge.