“It is that which we feel,” said his father. “It is sometimes in the air. If we listen we can hear it. I hear it now.” The boy lifted his face with all his senses strung. “I can only hear the ticking of the clock, my father, and the creaking of the fire.” “There is something else.” The boy walked to the shutters of the little room, pressed his ear against them, and listened with great intensity. “There is only the gurgle of water,” he said, “and the little voice of the wind.” “And,” said the man with faint eyes. “And--and! And the mighty roar of the streets of the great city.” “That is the drama, beloved one.” The boy sprang away from the shutters with a little cry. “Yes, now I know,” he said excitedly. “Now I know what it is. And it _was_ the something in the sound of the words. That which is given is taken away. It is what I am always dreaming about this little room of ours. I am always dreaming, my father, that it has been taken from us, that we have been cast out of it, that we have it no more. I have even dreamt that we wandered all day and all night in the cold and dreadful streets of the great city, among all those fierce and cruel street-persons, and that they looked upon us continually with their rude eyes. Then it is that I shiver so much in my fear that I awaken; and I could shout with joy when I find it is ours still, and that it has all been a dream.” The look of compassion deepened in the man’s face. “Dost thou never grow weary of this little room?” he said. “Never, never, my father,” said the boy. “I can never grow weary of this little room. I almost wish sometimes we did not venture to leave it, lest one day we should lose our path in the great city, and not find our way back. I sometimes think I would like to stay in it every moment of my earth-life, so that I might read every one of those authors in the shop. How I wish, my father, that I understood all the hard words and all the strange tongues like you do. But at least I understand one more very difficult word now that I know what is the meaning of the drama.” “That is to say, beloved one,” said his father, “now that you understand the meaning of the drama you hold the key to many other words that are also very difficult.” “Yes, yes, my father--and how quickly I shall learn them!” “You are indeed wonderful at learning.” “Yet sometimes, my father, I hardly dare to think how much there is to know. Sometimes when I lie by your side in the darkness, my father, and something seems to have happened to the moon, I almost feel that I shall never be able to know all.” “Thou art quite resolved, my brave one, to know all?” “Oh yes, my father,” said the boy, and his eyes grew round with surprise at the question. “Wherefore, beloved?” “I must, I must!” said the boy, and his eyes grew dark with bewilderment. “Dost thou not know, O my father----” He checked his words of surprised explanation shyly and suddenly.