"
"It's people in the swamp," asserted Zora, dreamily, smoothing out the
pillows of the couch, "'little people,' I call them. The difference is,
I think, that there I know how the story will come out; everything is
changing, but I know how and why and from what and to what. Now here,
_every_thing seems to be happening; but what is it that is happening?"
"You must know what has happened, to know what may happen," said Mrs.
Vanderpool.
"But how can I know?"
"I'll get you some books to-morrow."
"I'd like to know what it means," wistfully.
"It is meaningless." The woman's cynicism was lost upon Zora, of course,
but it possessed the salutary effect of stimulating the girl's thoughts,
encouraging her to discover for herself.
"I think not; so much must mean something," she protested.
Zora gathered up the clothes and things and shaded the windows, glancing
the while down on the street.
"Everybody is going, going," she murmured. "I wonder where. Don't they
ever get there?"
"Few arrive," said Mrs. Vanderpool. Zora softly bent and passed her cool
soft hand over her forehead.
"Then why do they go?"
"The zest of the search, perhaps."
"No," said Zora as she noiselessly left the room and closed the door;
"no, they are searching for something they have lost. Perhaps they, too,
are searching for the Way," and the tears blinded her eyes.
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