Slowly that
great shadow filled the room, took on human shape, until at last it
would be only thus that he would appear. But Henry would not realise the
change, soon he would not know that it had ever been otherwise. Dimly,
out of chaos, the world was being made for him. There a square of
colour, here something round and hard that was cool to touch, now a
gleaming rod that ran high into the air, now a shape very soft and warm
against which it was pleasant to lean. The clouds, the sweep of dim
colour, the vast horizons of that other world yielded, day by day, to
little concrete things--a patch of carpet, the leg of a chair, the
shadow of the fire, clouds beyond the window, buttons on some one's
clothes, the rails of his cot. Then there were voices, the touch of
hands, some one's soft hair, some one who sang little songs to him.
He woke early one morning and realised the rattle that his grandmother
had given to him. He suddenly realised it. He grasped the handle of it
with his hand and found this cool and pleasant to touch. He then, by
accident, made it tinkle, and instantly the prettiest noise replied to
him.
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