You know how wreath of smoke goes up from a chimney, and seems all thick and black and busy against the sky, as if it were going to do such important things and last forever, and you see it getting thinner and thinner--and then, in such a little while, it isn't there at all; nothing is left but the sky, and the sky keeps on being just the same forever." "It strikes me you're getting mixed up," said George cheerfully.

"I don't see much resemblance between time and the sky, or between things and smoke-wreaths; but I do see one reason you like 'Lucy Morgan so much.

She talks that same kind of wistful, moony way sometimes--I don't mean to say I mind it in either of you, because I rather like to listen to it, and you've got a very good voice, mother.

It's nice to listen to, no matter how much smoke and sky, and so on, you talk.

So's Lucy's for that matter; and I see why you're congenial.