They mustn't think
of him as--hurt. They know that something is the matter. Can you tell
them, Derry? So that they will think of him as fine and splendid, and
going up to Heaven because God loves brave men--?"
It was a hard task that she had set him, and when at last he left her,
he went slowly up the stairs.
The children had strung the Midnight Camels across the room, the
purple, patient creatures that Jean had made.
"The round rug is an oasis," Teddy explained, "and the jonquil is a
palm--and we are going to save the dates and figs from our lunch."
"I want my lunch," Margaret-Mary complained.
Derry looked at his watch. It was after twelve. The servants were all
demoralized. "See here," he said, "you sit still for a moment, and
I'll go down for your tray."
He brought it up himself, presently, bread and milk and fruit.
They sat on the oasis and ate, with the patient purple camels grouped
in the shade of the jonquil palm.
Then Derry asked, "Shall I tell you the story of How the Purple Camels
Came to Paradise?"
"Yes," they said, and he gathered little Margaret-Mary into his arms,
and Teddy lay flat on the floor and looked up at him, while Derry made
his difficult way towards the thing he had to tell.
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