There a square of colour, here something round and hard that was cool to touch, now a gleaming rod that ran high into the air, now a shape very soft and warm against which it was pleasant to lean.

The clouds, the sweep of dim colour, the vast horizons of that other world yielded, day by day, to little concrete things--a patch of carpet, the leg of a chair, the shadow of the fire, clouds beyond the window, buttons on some one's clothes, the rails of his cot.

Then there were voices, the touch of hands, some one's soft hair, some one who sang little songs to him.
He woke early one morning and realised the rattle that his grandmother had given to him.

He suddenly realised it.

He grasped the handle of it with his hand and found this cool and pleasant to touch.