ner,
some of them waving in the dimness like flimsy grey veils, others spread
about in such strange shapes that they almost seemed alive. No doubt
bats lived up there, Maisie thought, and she even fancied she could see
them clinging to the wall, dusky and shadowy as the cobwebs themselves.
She turned her eyes with a little shudder, for she did not like bats, to
the floor of the barn, and this was much more cheerful to look at, for
it was covered with pretty light yellow shavings all in curls and
twists. More continually floated down to join them from Tuvvy's bench,
where he was planing a piece of wood for Dennis; they were exactly like
the flaxen hair of Maisie's favourite doll. Her serious gaze wandered
on to the end of the barn, which was almost filled up by a great machine
something like a gigantic grasshopper. It looked terribly strong with
its iron limbs, although it was at rest, and she felt half afraid of it,
though she had often seen it before. What was it, and why was it there?

She could easily have put this question to Tuvvy, but Maisie seldom
asked questions. She had a habit of turning things over in her own
little mind, and wrapping fancies round them, until she had quite a
collection of strange objects in her small world. She would have missed
these very much, if they had been exposed to daylight and turned into
facts, and in this she was quite different from Dennis; he always wanted
to know the reason why, and to have the meaning of things made quite
clear to him.

She was not left long, however, to wonder about the big machine, for
Tuvvy, giving a sudden wag of his head towards it, said: "The elevator's
my next job, soon as hay harvest's over. Wants a lick o' paint."

"How jolly!" exclaimed Dennis, turning towards it with admiration and
envy. "I say, won't it just take a lot of paint! What a jolly job!"

"I wish you had it then, master," said Tuvvy grimly. "'Tain't the sort
as pleases _me_. It don't give you no credit when it's done, and the
paint splashes you awful. It's what I call a reg'lar comical sort of a
job."

"I should _like_ it," said Dennis with deep conviction, still staring at
the elevator. "What colour shall you paint it?"

"Gaffer said 'twas to be a sort of a yaller," said Tuvvy; "but it don't
make much odds. There, master," he continued, as he finished his
planing, "that's what you want, and I'll stop to-morrow as I pass, and
give a look at the perches."

Dennis wou