sort, barked approval. They all stood to admire the display, and then the family went on about its affairs. There was something a little thoughtful about Louise's face as she went looking for a cat to hug.
It was rainy that Sunday: driving April rain and gale. For several days the garden was mostly mud, and there were other things to think about. Then, when dry weather returned, a sodden scrap of paper was found blowing about behind the house. It was part of a daffodil, blown clean off its paper stalk. As Christopher truly said when he revisited the place, now the daffodils were "not so realistic." Those that remained were faded and crumpled and smeared.
And then the paper daffodils were forgotten. Months later, raking under the rhododendrons, their father found a piece of one, and a queer little pain ran round in his mind. Donny, who was rooting and grubbing and snuffing not far away, asked him what was wrong.
"Well, Donny," he said, "it's awfully easy to tear up beautiful things, but very hard to put them back."
Donny only grunted.
