ng," said Virginia softly, "of Matthew Arnold's poem--the
one on _Self-Dependence_, you know, Vivian, which we had in class, and
which Miss Wallace likes so much. Of course, he was on the sea when he
thought of it, but so are we--on a prairie sea--and I'm sure the stars
were never brighter, even there. I learned it because I think it expresses
the way one feels out here. I used to feel little, too, Vivian, but I
don't any more. I feel just as though some strange thing inside of me were
trying to reach the stars. It's just as though all the little things that
have bothered you were gone away--just as though you were ready to learn
_real_ things from the stars and the silence and the mountains--learn how
to be like them, I mean. You know what he said in the poem, Vivian--the
stanza about the stars--the one Miss Wallace loves the best:

'Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.'"

Vivian sighed--a long, deep sigh that somehow drew them closer together.

"I don't believe I'll ever be like that," she said. "I'm afraid I'll
always want sympathy and--love!"

"But it doesn't mean that, Vivian," explained Virginia. "I'm sure it
doesn't. Of course, we all want those things--more than anything else in
the world. But I think it means just as Miss Wallace said, that instead of
demanding them we're to live so--so nobly that they will come to
us--unsought, you know. Doesn't that make it a little easier, don't you
think?"

The August night grew cold, and soon they went indoors to a friendship
fire in the stone fire-place. They watched the flames roar up the chimney,
then crackle cheerily, and at last flicker away to little blue tongues,
which died almost as soon as they were born. There was no other light in
the cabin. Virginia had said that none was needed, and she did not notice
the apprehensive glances which the other Vigilantes cast around the
shadowy, half-lit room. At last Vivian yawned.

"Nine o'clock," said Virginia. "Bed-time! I guess we can see to undress by
moonlight, can't we?"

"What shall we do about the door?" asked Mary hesitatingly. "It won't
lock, you know."

"That won't matter," said Virginia carelessly, while she covered the
fire-brands with ashes. "There's no one in the world around. Besides,
Watch and King will take care of things. You