The rat put the cardigan on, squeezed back through the fireplace, and climbed once more to the top of the house.
There was the egg, sitting quietly under the skylight. There was the tired rat, wearing his peculiar knitted cardigan, the drawstring pulling uncomfortably against his throat.
“Good heavens!” said the egg, in something like his usual tones.
The rat did not know what to say. He undid the buttons of the cardigan, laid it on the floor, untied the hood and carefully freed the new egg, dragging him, as gently as he could, over to his old friend.
The rat looked from one egg to the other. Something was not right. He crept up to the egg and whispered, “Egg? What is wrong?”
“I am sorry,” said the egg in his small quiet voice. “You have tried so hard.”
“Please tell me.”
“That is not an egg,” said the egg reluctantly. “It is a weeble.”
“Oh,” said the rat.
Again, a less generous soul might have felt that this was a poor return for so much trouble and effort. But the rat did not feel this. His burning need to make the egg happy became stronger still, and with renewed determination he said, “I will try again, Egg. I will try again.”