The red underwing had never come back, though Jacob had waited.

It was after twelve when he crossed the lawn and saw his mother in the bright room, playing patience, sitting up.
"How you frightened me!" she had cried.

She thought something dreadful had happened.

And he woke Rebecca, who had to be up so early.
There he stood pale, come out of the depths of darkness, in the hot room, blinking at the light.
No, it could not be a straw-bordered underwing.
The mowing-machine always wanted oiling.

Barnet turned it under Jacob's window, and it creaked--creaked, and rattled across the lawn and creaked again.
Now it was clouding over.
Back came the sun, dazzlingly.
It fell like an eye upon the stirrups, and then suddenly and yet very gently rested upon the bed, upon the alarum clock, and upon the butterfly box stood open.