Once a week Jane's nurse had her evening off; and then it was
Wendy's part to put Jane to bed. That was the time for stories.
It was Jane's invention to raise the sheet over her mother's head
and her own, this making a tent, and in the awful darkness to
whisper:

"What do we see now?"

"I don't think I see anything to-night," says Wendy, with a
feeling that if Nana were here she would object to further
conversation.

"Yes, you do," says Jan, "you see when you were a little girl."

"That is a long time ago, sweetheart," says Wendy. "Ah me, how
time flies!"

"Does it fly," asks the artful child, "the way you flew when
you were a little girl?"

"The way I flew? Do you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether
I ever did really fly."

"Yes, you did."

"The dear old days when I could fly!"

"Why can't you fly now, mother?"

"Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they
forget the way."