She was alone with Uncle Felix, and they had chosen with great difficulty a spot where they could lie down without crushing a single flower with their enormous bodies. After considerable difficulty they had found it. Having done a great many things since lunch--a feast involving several second helpings--they were feeling heavy and exhausted. So Judy chose this moment for her simple question. The world required explanation. "There's life in everything," he mumbled, with his face against the grass, "everything that grows, especially." And having said it, he settled down comfortably again to doze. His pipe was out. He felt rather like a log. "But stopping growing isn't dying," she informed him sharply. "Oh, no," he agreed lazily, "you're alive for a long time after that." "_You_ stopped growing before I was born." "And I'm not quite dead yet." "Exactly," she said, "so daisies _are_ alive." It was absurd to think of dozing at such a time. He rolled round heavily and gazed at her through half-closed eyelids. "A daisy breathes," he murmured, "and drinks and eats; sap circulates in its little body. Probably it feels as well. Delicate threads like nerves run through it everywhere. It knows when it is being picked or walked on. Oh, yes, a daisy is alive all right enough." He sighed like a big dog that has just shaken a fly off its nose and lies waiting for the next attack. It came at once. "But who knows it?" she asked. "I mean--there's no good in being alive unless some one else knows it too!" Then he sat up and stared at her. Judy, he remembered, knew a lot of things she could tell to no one, not even to herself--and this seemed one of them. The question was a startling one. "An intellectual mystic at twelve!" he gasped. "How on earth did you manage it?" "I may be a mystillectual insect," she replied, proud of the compliment. "But what's the good of being alive, even like a daisy, unless others know it--_us_, for instance?" He still stared at her, sitting up stiffly, and propped by his hands upon the grass behind him. After prolonged reflection, during which he closed his eyes and opened them several times in succession, sighing laboriously while he did so, low mumbled words became audible. "Forgive my apparent slowness," he said, "but I feel like a mowing-machine this afternoon. I want oiling and pushing. The answer to your inquiry, however, is as follows: We could--_if_ we took the trouble." "Could know that daisies are alive?" she cried. His great head nodded. "If we thought about them very hard indeed," he went on, "and for a very, very long time we could feel as they feel, and so understand them, and know exactly _how_ they are alive." And the way he said it, the grave, thoughtful, solemn way, convinced her, who already was convinced beforehand. "I do believe we could," she answered simply. "I'm sure of it," he said. "Let's try," she whispered breathlessly.