"Taught you what?" I asked her when she wouldn't go on. "It's hard to say it in words--taught me how near all the rest is." I didn't get her, so I asked what she meant by "the rest." "The rest of creation!" says she. "Some folks is born in the world feeling and knowing it in their hearts that creation don't stop where the sight of the eyes stop, and the thinner the veil is the better, and something in them sickens when the veil gets too thick." "You talk like you believed in spooks and God knows what," I says, but more to make myself comfortable than anything else. "You know what I mean, Jane McQuarry," says she. "There's very few folks, especially older ones, who haven't sometimes felt the veil get thinner and thinner until you could see the light shining through. But we've been brought up to think such ideas are silly and to be ashamed of 'em and only to believe in what we can touch and taste and, in spite of stars shining every night over our heads, to think creation stops with heavy things like us. And how anyone who's ever seen a fish swimming in the water can think that--I don't know. What do they know of us and how can they imagine folks on legs walking around and breathing the air that makes 'em die? So why aren't there creatures, all kind of 'em, we can no more see than a fish can us?" I couldn't answer that, so I went back to Moira. "She'll get queer going on like this," I said. "Thin veils and light shining through and creatures that feel about us like we do about fishes are all right for old folks who've lived their lives. She's got to live hers and live it the way ordinary folks do." "Ain't she happy?" asked Mis' MacFarland. "Don't she like rolling a hoop and playing with the other children? Didn't you say only yesterday her mischief would drive you out of your senses?" I couldn't deny this. Unless you'd seen her as I had, she was just like any other happy little girl, only happier maybe. Like, I said, you could see her heart shine some days, she was so happy. About that time I found out more how she felt. One still night, for no reason, I got out of my bed and went into Moira's room and there she was sitting up in her bed, her eyes like starlight. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Why--I--don't know--I'm waiting for something!" "Waiting! At this time of the night! How you talk! You lie right down, Moira Anderson, and go to sleep," says I, sharp. "I can't yet," she says, turning to me. "I haven't been able to find it for two days now. I've not been good inside and I drove it away." "For mercy's sake, speak plain! What did you drive away?" "Why, don't you know?" says she. "You lose your good when you're unkind or anything." "Your _good_!" I says. "Where do you get it from?" For she spoke as though she were talking of something that was outside herself and that came and went. "It comes from out there," she says, surprised that I didn't know. "From out there?"