Its midnight coming and going, however, stood out sharply

different from its first shy, tentative approach. For in the firelight

it came alone; whereas in the black and silent hours, it had with

it—others.

And it was then he made up his mind that its swift and quiet

movements were due to the fact that it had wings. It flew. And the

others that came with it in the darkness were “its little ones.”

He also made up his mind that all were friendly, comforting,

protective, and that while positively not a Nightmare, it yet came

somehow along the Nightmare Passage before it reached him. “You see,

it’s like this,” he explained to the nurse: “The big one comes to visit

me alone, but it only brings its little ones when I’m quite asleep.”

“Then the quicker you get to sleep the better, isn’t it, Master

Tim?”

He replied: “Rather! I always do. Only I wonder where they come

from!” He spoke, however, as though he had an inkling.

But the nurse was so dull about it that he gave her up and tried

his father. “Of course,”

replied this busy but affectionate parent, “it’s either nobody at

all, or else it’s Sleep coming to carry you away to the land of

dreams.” He made the statement kindly but somewhat briskly, for he was

worried just then about the extra taxes on his land, and the effort to

fix his mind on Tim’s fanciful world was beyond him at the moment. He

lifted the boy on to his knee, kissed and patted him as though he were

a favourite dog, and planted him on the rug again with a flying sweep.

“Run and ask your mother,” he added; “she knows all that kind of

thing. Then come back and tell.me all about it—another time.”

Tim found his mother in an arm-chair before the fire of another

room; she was knitting and reading at the same time—a wonderful thing

the boy could never understand. She raised her head as he came in,

pushed her glasses on to her forehead, and held her arms out. He told

her everything, ending up with what his father said.

“You see, it’s not Jackman, or Thompson, or any one like that,” he

exclaimed. “It’s some one real.”

“But nice,” she assured him, “some one who comes to take care of

you and see that you’re all safe and cosy.”

“Oh, yes, I know that. But—”

“I think your father’s right,” she added quickly. “It’s Sleep, I’m

sure, who pops in round the door like that. Sleep has got wings, I’ve

always heard.”

“Then the other thing—the little ones?” he asked. “Are they just

sorts of dozes, you think?”

Mother did not answer for a moment. She turned down the page of her

book, closed it slowly, put it on the table beside her. More slowly

still she put her knitting away, arranging the wool and needles with

some deliberation.

“Perhaps,” she said, drawing the boy closer to her and looking into

his big eyes of wonder, “they’re dreams!”

Tim felt a thrill run through him as she said it. He stepped back a

foot or so and clapped his hands softly. “Dreams!” he whispered with

enthusiasm and belief; “of course! I never thought of that.”

His mother, having proved her sagacity, then made a mistake. She

noted her success, but instead of leaving it there, she elaborated and

explained. As Tim expressed it she “went on about it.” Therefore he

did not listen. He followed his train of thought alone. And presently,

he interrupted her long sentences with a conclusion of his own:

“Then I know where She hides,” he announced with a touch of awe.

“Where She lives, I mean.” And without waiting to be asked, he

imparted the information: ”It’s in the Other Wing.”

“Ah!” said his mother, taken by surprise.