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The Rabbit thought of those long sunlit hours in the garden–and a great sadness came over him. He seemed to see them all pass before him, each more beautiful than the other, the fairy huts in the flower-bed, the quiet evenings in the wood when he lay in the bracken; the wonderful day when he first knew that he was Real.
He thought of the Skin Horse, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty and become Real if it all ended like this?
And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.
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