living
things. They rolled by Baltimore and Philadelphia, and she talked of
every-day matters: of the sky which alone stood steadfast amid whirling
change; of bits of empty earth that shook themselves here and there
loose from their burden of men, and lay naked in the cold shining
sunlight.

All the while the greater questions were beating and curling and
building themselves back in her brain, and above all she was wondering
why no one had told her before of all this mighty world. Mrs.
Vanderpool, to whom it seemed too familiar for comment, had said no
word; or, if she had spoken, Zora's ears had not been tuned to
understand; and as they flew toward the towering ramparts of New York,
she sat up big with the terror of a new thought: suppose this world were
full yet of things she did not know nor dream of? How could she find
out? She must know.

When finally they were settled in New York and sat high up on the Fifth
Avenue front of the hotel, gradually the inarticulate questioning found
words, albeit strange ones.

"It reminds me of the swamp," she said.

Mrs. Vanderpool, just returned from a shopping tour, burst into
laughter.

"It is--but I marvel at your penetration."

"I mean, it is moving--always moving."

"The swamp seemed to me unearthly still."

"Yes--yes," cried Zora, eagerly, brushing back the rumpled hair; "and so
did the city, at first, to me."

"Still! New York?"

"Yes. You see, I saw the buildings and forgot the men; and the
buildings were so tall and silent against Heaven. And then I came to see
the people, and suddenly I knew the city was like the swamp, always
restless and changing."

"And more beautiful?" suggested Mrs. Vanderpool, slipping her arms into
her lounging-robe.

"Oh, no; not nearly so beautiful. And yet--more interesting." Then with
a puzzled look: "I wonder why?"

"Perhaps because it's people and not things."

"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.