Wolf looked at the book in question, which was a large edition of Young’s Night Thoughts bound like a school-prize.

“It’s a child’s hand,” said his mother, watching his face with gleaming brown eyes. “Is it from that little Smith girl, do you think? Or have those people you stayed with, those funny Otter people, got any children?”

Wolf shook his head. Could it be from Olwen Smith? It appeared unlikely; but the child did seem to have taken a fancy to him. It was possible. But then, in one of those sudden clairvoyances that emanate so strangely from unopened letters, he felt certain that it wasn’t from a child at all. It was from Gerda!

“You’re mad to read it, Wolf, I can see that. But I won’t have my good lunch spoilt. I think it would be nice if we had our coffee at once, don’t you? Do go and bring it in! It’s on the kitchen-stove.”