“So icy!” she said gasping.

“Good, isn’t it! Did you wish?”

“Did you?”

“Yes, I wished. But I won’t tell.”

She was aware of the rapping of a woodpecker, then of the wind, soft and eerie through the larches. She looked up. White clouds were crossing the blue.

“Clouds!” she said.

“White lambs only,” he replied.

A shadow crossed the little clearing. The mole had swum out onto the soft yellow earth.

“Unpleasant little beast, we ought to kill him,” said Clifford.

“Look! he’s like a parson in a pulpit,” said she.