"The pixies are out again," whispered the child, head rolled back so that it was parallel to the skylight, eyes like great living marbles, ears pointed as they listened to the tap-tap-tapping on the glass behind the blind.
"Pixies?" little Annabel's blank face said soundlessly.
"Yes, don't you know?" cried the child in surprise, meeting her daughter's puzzle gaze. "Didn't you know what rain was?"
Annabel shook her head without moving a muscle, and the child pursed her small pink lips disbelievingly.
Bending her neck, the child spoke to Annabel in a voice almost reverent in tone, "rain comes when the pixies dance over the land in their tap-tap-tapping shoes, sprinkling their pixie dust all over the plants to make them grow. But they never let anyone see them, so not many people know it."
"That's amazing!" cried Annabel's motionless lips.
"Hush! You mustn't scare them or they'll run away, and there'll be no more tap-tap-tapping and the plants will die," reproved the child, eyes fixed on the skylight with a genuine anxiety. "Oh, Annabel, don't you love the pixies?"