Chapter XXI

by Susan Glaspell

　　Katie's memory of what followed was blurred. She remembered how relievedshe was when Ann's laugh—oh the memory of that laugh was clearenough!—gave way to sobbing. Sobbing was easier to deal with. She saidsomething about her friend's being ill, and that they would have toexcuse them. She almost wanted to laugh—or was it cry?—herself at theway Harry Prescott was looking from Ann to his mother. After she got Annin the house she went back and begged somebody's pardon—she wasn't surewhose—and told Colonel Leonard that of course he could understand it onthe score of Ann's being a neurotic. She was afraid she might have saidthat rather disagreeably. And she believed she told Mrs. Prescott—shehad to tell Mrs. Prescott something, she looked so frightened and hurtand outraged—that Ann had a form of nervous trouble which made itimpossible for her to hear the name of God.

　　The hardest was Wayne. She came to him on the porch after the others hadgone—they were not long in dispersing. "Wayne," she said, "I'm sorry tohave embarrassed you."

　　His short, curt laugh did not reveal his mood. It wasscoffing—contemptuous—but she could not tell at what it scoffed. He hadnot turned toward her.

　　"I'm sorry," she repeated. "Ann will be sorry. She's so—"

　　He turned upon her hotly. "Katie, quit lying to me. I know there'ssomething you're not telling. I've suspected it for some time. Now don'tget off any of that 'nervous trouble' talk to me!"

　　She stood there dumbly.

　　It seemed to enrage him. "Why don't you go and look after her! What doyou mean by leaving her all alone?"

　　So she went to look after her.

　　Ann looked like one who needed looking after. Her eyes were intolerablybright. It seemed the heat behind them must put them out.

　　She was walking about the room, walking as if something were behind herwith a lash.

　　"You see, Katie," she began, not pausing in the walking—her voice,too, as though a whip were behind it—"it was just as I told you. Itwas just as I tried to tell you. There are two worlds. There's no usetrying to put me in yours. See what I bring you! See what you get forit! See what—"

　　She stood still, rocking back and forth as she stood there. "It was toomuch for me to hear her talking about God! That was a little too much!My father was a minister!" And Ann laughed.

　　A minister was one thing Katie had not thought of. Even in that momentshe was conscious of relief. Certainly the ministry was respectable.

　　But why should it be "too much" for the daughter of a minister to hearanything about God?

　　"Ann," she began quietly, "I don't want to force anything. If you wantto be alone I'll even take my things and sleep somewhere else. But, Ann,dear, if you could tell me a little I wouldn't be so much in the dark; Icould do better for us both."

　　Ann did not seem to notice what she was saying. "She was tired of things!She was tired of things! Tired of hanging her hat on the same kind ofpeg! Why it's awful—it's awful, I tell you—to always be hanging yourhat on the same kind of peg!

　　"She was tired of not having any fun! Oh so tired of not having any fun!

　　Why you don't care what you do when you get tired of not having any fun!

　　"Then people laugh—the people who have all the fun. Oh they think it'sso funny!—the people who don't have to hang their hats on any kind ofpeg. So trivial. So—what's that nervous word? Katie—you're not like therest of them! Why, you seem to know—just know without knowing."

　　"But it's hard for me," suggested Katie. "Trying to know—and notknowing."

　　Ann was still walking about the room. "I was brought up in a little townin Indiana. You see I'm going to tell you. I've got to be doingsomething—and it may as well be talking. Now how did I start? Oh yes—Iwas brought up in a little town in Indiana. Until three years ago, thatwas where I lived. Were you ever in a little town in Indiana?"

　　Katie replied in the negative.

　　"Maybe there are little towns in Indiana that are different. I don'tknow. Maybe there are. But this one-in this one life was just one longstretch of hanging your hat on exactly the same kind of peg!

　　"It was so square—so flat—so dingy—oh, so dreadful! It didn't haveanything around it—as some towns do—a hill, or a river, or woods.Around it was something that was just nothing. It was just walled in bythe nothingness all around it.

　　"And the people in it were flat, and square, and dingy. And the thingsaround them were just nothing. They were walled in, too, by thenothingness all around them."

　　Then the most unexpected of all things happened. Ann smiled. "Katie, I'dlike to have seen you in that town!"

　　"I'm afraid," said Katie, "that I would have invented a new kind of peg."

　　The smile seemed to have done Ann good. She sat down, grew more natural.

　　"When I try to tell about my life in that town I suppose it sounds asthough I were making a terrible fuss about things. When you think ofchildren that haven't any homes-that are beaten by drunkenfathers—starved—overworked-but it was the nothingness. If my fatheronly had got drunk!"

　　Katie smiled understandingly.

　　"Katie, you've a lot of imagination. Just try to think what it would meannever to have what you could really call fun!"

　　Katie took a sweep back over her own life—full to the brim of fun. Herimagination did not go far enough to get a real picture of life with thefun left out.

　　"Oh, of course," said Ann, "there were pleasures! My father and thepeople of his church were like Miss Osborne—they believed it was one ofthe underlying principles of life—only they would call it 'God'swill'—that all must have pleasure. But such God-fearing pleasure! Ithink I could have stood it if it hadn't been for the pleasures."

　　"Pleasures with the fun left out," suggested Kate.

　　"Yes, though fun isn't the word, for I don't mean just good times. Imean—I mean—"

　　"You mean the joy of living," said Katie. "You mean the loveliness oflife."

　　"Yes; now your kind of religion—the kind of religion your kind of peoplehave, doesn't seem to hurt them any."

　　Katie laughed oddly. "True; it doesn't hurt us much."

　　"My father's kind is something so different. The love of God seems tohave dried him up. He's not a human being. He's a Christian."

　　Katie thought of her uncle—a bishop, and all too human a human being.She was about to protest, then considered that she had never known thekind of Christian—or human being—Ann was talking about.

　　"Everything at our church squeaked. The windows. The organ. The deacon'sshoes. My father's voice. The religion squeaked. Life squeaked.

　　"I'll tell you a story, Katie, that maybe will make you see how it was.

　　It's about a dog, and it's easy for you to understand things about dogs.

　　"Some one gave him to me. I suppose he was not a fine dog—notfull-blooded. But that didn't matter. You know that we don't love dogsfor their blood. We love them for the way they look out of their eyes,and the way they wag their tails. I can't tell you what this dog meant tome—something to love—something that loved me—some one to play with—acompanion—a friend—something that didn't have anything to do with myfather's church!

　　"He used to feel so sorry when I had to sit learning Bible verses.

　　Sometimes he would put his two paws up on my lap and try to push the

　　Bible away. I loved him for that. And when at last I could put it away he

　　would dance round me with little yelps of joy. He warmed something in me.

　　He kept something alive.

　　"And then one day when I came home from a missionary meeting where I hadread a paper telling how cruelly young girls were treated by theirparents in India, and how there was no joy and love and beauty in theirlives, I—" Ann hid her face and it was a drawn, grayish face she raisedafter a minute—"Tono was not there. I called and called him. My fatherwas writing a sermon. He let me go on calling. I could not understand it.Tono always came running down the walk, wagging his tail and giving hislittle barks of joy when I came. It had made coming home seem differentfrom what it had ever seemed before. But that day he was not therewatching for me. My father let me go on calling for a long time. At lasthe came to the door and said—'Please stop that unseemly noise. The doghas been sent away.' 'Sent away?' I whispered. 'What do you mean?' 'Imean that I have seen fit to dispose of him,' he answered. I wastrembling all over. 'What right had you to dispose of him?' I wanted toknow. 'He wasn't your dog—' The answer was that I was to go up to myroom and learn Bible verses until the Lord chastened my spirit. Then Isaid things. I would not learn Bible verses. I would have my dog. Itended"—Ann was trembling uncontrollably—"it ended with the rod beingunspared. God's forgiveness was invoked with each stroke."

　　She was digging her finger nails into her palms. Katie put her armsaround her. "I wouldn't, Ann dear—it isn't worth while. It's all overnow. Wouldn't it be better to forget?"

　　"No, I want to tell you. Some day I may try to tell you other things. Iwant this to try to explain them. Loving dogs, you will understandthis—better than you could some other things.

　　"The dog had been given away to some one who lived in the country. It wasbecause I had played with him the Sunday morning before and had been lateto Sunday-school."

　　Her voice was dry and hard; it was from Katie there came the exclamationof protest and contempt.

　　"No one except one who loves dogs as you do would know what it meant.

　　Even you can't quite know. For Tono was all I had. He—"

　　Katie's arm about her tightened.

　　"I could have stood it for myself. I could have stood my ownlonesomeness. But what I couldn't stand was thinking about him. Nights Iwould wake up and think of him—out in the cold—homesick—maybehungry—not understanding—watching and waiting—wondering why I didn'tcome. I couldn't keep from thinking about things that tortured me. Thisman was a deacon in my father's church. From the way he prayed, I knew hewas not one to be good to dogs.

　　"And then one afternoon I heard the little familiar scratch at the door.I rushed to it, and there he was—shivering—but oh so, so glad! Hesprang right into my arms—we cried and cried together—sitting there onthe floor. His heart had been almost broken—he had grieved—suffered.He wasn't willing to leave my arms; just whimpering the way one does whena dreadful thing is over—licking my face—you know how they do—you knowhow dear they are.

　　"Now I will tell you what I did. Holding him in my arms, my face buriedin his fur—I made up my mind. The family would be away for at least anhour. I would give him the happiest hour I knew how to give him. Onehour—it was all I had the power to give him. Then—because I loved himso much—I would end his life."

　　Katie's face whitened. "I carried out the plan," Ann went on. "I gave himthe meat we were to have had for supper. I had him do all his littletricks. I loved him and loved him. I do not think any little dog everhad a happier hour.

　　"And then—down at a house in the next block I saw my father—and the manhe had given Tono to. The man was coming to our house for supper. Ourtime was up.

　　"I can never explain to any one the way I did it—the way I felt as I didit. There was no crying. There was no faltering. It seemed that all atonce I understood—understood the hardness of life—that things arehard—that things have got to be done. Then was when it came to me thatyou've got to harden yourself—that it's the only way.

　　"I filled a tub with water—I didn't know any other way to do it. Tonostood there watching me. I took a bucket. I took up the dog. I huggedhim. I let him lick my face. Though I live to be very old, Katie, andsuffer very much, I can never forget the look in his eyes as I put him inthe water and held him to put down the bucket. There are things a persongoes through that make perfect happiness forever impossible. There arehours that stay."

　　The face of the soldier's daughter was wet. "I love you for it, Ann," shewhispered. "I love you for it. It was strong, Ann. It was fine."

　　"I wasn't very strong and fine the minute it was over," sobbed Ann."I fainted. They found me there. And then I screamed and laughed andsaid I was going to kill all the dogs in the world. I said—oh,dreadful things."

　　"They should have understood," murmured Kate.

　　"They didn't. They said I was wicked. They said the Evil One had enteredinto me. They said I must pray God to forgive me for having killed one ofhis creatures! Me—!

　　"Of course it ended in Bible verses. Is it so strange I loathed theBible? And every morning I had to hear myself prayed for as a wicked girlwho would harm one of God's creatures. The Almighty was implored not tosend me to Hell. 'Send me there if you want to,' I'd say to myself on myknees, 'Tono's not in Hell, anyway.'"

　　Ann laughed bitterly. "So that's why I'm a sacrilegious, blasphemousperson who doesn't care much about hearing about God. I associate Himwith thin lips that shut together tight-and people who make longprayers and break little dogs' hearts—and with boots—and souls—thatsqueak. I can't think of one single thing I ever heard about Him thatmade me like Him."

　　"Oh, Ann dear!" protested Katie shudderingly.

　　"Try not to think such things. Try not to feel that way. You haven'theard everything there is to hear about God. You haven't heard any of itin the right way."

　　"Perhaps not. I only know what I have heard." And Ann's face was toowhite and hard for Katie to say more.

　　"And your mother, dear? Where was she all this time? Didn't she loveyou—and help?"

　　"She died when I was twelve. She'd like to have loved me. She did some onthe sly—in a scared kind of way."

　　Katie sat there contemplating the picture of Ann's father and mother and

　　Ann—Ann, as child of that union.

　　"I think she died because life frightened her so. In a year my fathermarried again. She isn't afraid of anything. She's a God-fearing,exemplary woman. And she always looks to see if you have any mud onyour shoes."

　　After a moment Ann said quietly: "I hate her."

　　"So would I," said Katie, and it brought the ghost of a smile to Ann'slips, perhaps thinking of just how cordially Katie would hate her.

　　"And then after a while you left this town?" Katie suggested as Annseemed held there by something.

　　"Yes, after a while I left." And that held her again.

　　"I was fifteen when I—freed Tono from life," she emerged from it. "Itwas five years later that you—stopped me from freeing myself. Lots ofthings were crowded into those five years, Katie—or rather into the lastthree of them. I had to be treated worse than Tono was treated before itcame to me that I had better be as kind to myself as I had been to mydog. Only I," Ann laughed, "didn't have anybody to give me a last hour!"

　　"But you see it wasn't a last hour, after all," soothed Katie. "Only thelast hour of the old hard things. Things that can never come back."

　　"Can't they come back, Katie? Can't they?"

　　Katie shook her head with decision. "Do you think I'd let them comeback? Why I'd shut the door in their face!"

　　"Sometimes," said Ann, "it seems to me they're lying in wait for me. Thatthey're going to spring out. That this is a dream. That there isn't anyKatie Jones. Some nights I've been afraid to go to sleep. Afraid ofwaking to find it a dream. There's an awful dream I dream sometimes! Thedream is that this is a dream."

　　"Poor dear," murmured Katie. "It will be more real now that we'vetalked."

　　"I used to dream a dream, Katie, and I think it was about you. Only youweren't any one thing. You were all kinds of different things. Lovelythings. You were Something Somewhere. You were the something that was wayoff beyond the nothingness of Centralia."

　　"The something that didn't squeak," suggested Katie tremulously.

　　"Something Somewhere. You were both a waking and a sleeping dream. I knewyou were there. Isn't it queer how we do—know without knowing? My fatherused to talk about people being 'called.' Called to the ministry—calledto the missionary field—called to heaven. Well maybe you're called toother things, too. Maybe," said Ann with a laugh which sobbed, "you'reeven 'called' to Chicago."

　　The laugh died and the sob lingered. "Only when you get there—Chicagodoesn't seem to know that it had called you.

　　"My Something Somewhere was always something I never could catch upwith. Sometimes it was a beautiful country—where a river wound through awoods. Sometimes it was beautiful people laughing and dancing. Sometimesit was a star. Sometimes it was a field of flowers—all blowing back andforth. Sometimes it was a voice—a wonderful far-away voice. Sometimes itwas a lovely dress—oh a wonderful gauzy dress—or a hat that was likethe blowing field of flowers. Sometimes—this was the loveliest ofall—it was somebody who loved me. But whatever it was, it was somethingI couldn't overtake.

　　"And you mustn't laugh, Katie, when I tell you that the thing that mademe think I could catch up with it was a moving-picture show!

　　"It came to Centralia—the first one that had ever been there. I heardthe people next door talking about it. They said there were pictures ofthings that really happened in the great cities—oh of kings and queensand the president and millionaires and automobile races and grandweddings; that the pictures went on just like the happenings went on;that it was just as if the pictures were alive; that it was just likebeing there.

　　"Oh, I was so excited about it! I was so excited I could hardlyget ready.

　　"You see ever since Tono had died—two years before, I had kept that ideathat things were hard. That the thing to do was to be hard. I dreamedabout things that were lovely—the Something Somewhere things—but as faras the real things went I never changed my mind about them. You mustn'tlet them into your heart. They just wanted to get in there to hurt you.

　　"Now I forgot all about that. These pictures were dreams made real. Theyhad caught up with the Something Somewhere. And I was going to see them.

　　"But I didn't—not that day. I was so happy that my father suspectedsomething. And he got it out of me and said I couldn't go. He said thatthe things that would be pictured would be the wickedness of the world.That I was not to see it.

　　"But I made up my mind that I would see the wickedness of the world." Annpaused, and then said in lower voice: "And I have—and not just inpictures."

　　She seemed to be meeting something, and she answered it. "But just thesame," she made answer defiantly, "I'd rather see the wickedness of theworld than stay in the nothingness of the world!

　　"The pictures were to be there a week. I thought of nothing else but howI could see them. The last day there was a thimble-bee. I went to thethimble-bee—said I couldn't stay—and went to the pictures.

　　"Katie, that moving-picture show was proof. Proof of the SomethingSomewhere. And in my heart I made a vow—it was a solemn vow—that Iwould find the things that moved in the pictures.

　　"And there was music—such music as I had never heard before, even thoughit came out of a box. They had the songs of the grand opera singers. Andas I listened—I tell you I was called!—I don't care how silly itsounds—I was called by the voices that had sung into that box. For thiswas real—if the life hadn't been there it couldn't have been caught intothe pictures and the box. It proved—I thought—that all the lovelythings I had dreamed were true. I had only to go and find them. Peoplewere walking upon those streets. Then I could walk on those streets. Andthose people were laughing—and talking to each other. Everybody seemedto have friends. Everybody was happy! And all of that really was. Thepictures were alive. Alive with the things that there were out beyond thenothingness of Centralia.

　　"The man played something from an opera and showed pictures of beautifulpeople going into a beautiful place to listen to that very music. He saidthat the very next night in Chicago those people would be going into thatplace to listen to those very voices.

　　"Katie, I don't believe you'll laugh at me when I tell you that my teethfairly chattered when first it came to me that I must be one of thosepeople! It was something all different from the longing for fun—oh itwas something big—terrible—it had to be. It was the same feeling ofits having to be that I had about Tono.

　　"Though probably that feeling would have passed away if it hadn't beenfor my father. He came there and found me, and—humiliated me. And afterwe got home—" Ann was holding herself tight, but after a moment sherelaxed to say with an attempted laugh: "It wasn't all being 'called.'Part of it was being driven.

　　"Then there was another thing. The treasurer of the missionary societycame that night with some money—eighteen dollars—I was to send off thenext day. It was that money started me out to find my SomethingSomewhere."

　　"Oh Ann!" whispered Katie, drawing back. "But of course," she added,"you paid it back just as soon as you could?"

　　"I never paid it back! If I had eighteen million dollars, I'd neverpay it back! I like to think of not paying it back!"

　　Katie's face hardened. "I can't understand that."

　　"No," sobbed Ann, "you'd have to have lived a long time in nothingness tounderstand that—and some other things, too." She looked at herstrangely. "There's more coming, Katie, that you won't be able tounderstand."

　　Katie's face was averted, but something in Ann's voice made her turn toher. "I think it was wrong, Ann. There's no use in my pretending I don't.I can't understand this. But maybe I can understand some of the otherthings better than you think."

　　"I left at six o'clock the next morning," Ann went back to it whenshe was calmer. "And at the last minute I don't think I would havehad the courage to go if my father hadn't been snoring so. How sillyit all sounds!

　　"And the only reason I got on the train was that it would have takenmore courage to go back than to go on.

　　"Katie, some time I'll tell you all about it. How I felt when I got toChicago. How it seemed to shriek and roar. How I seemed just buriedunder the noise. How I walked around the streets that day—frightenedalmost to death—and yet, inside the fright, just crazy about it. Andhow green I was!

　　"Nothing seemed to matter except going to grand opera. I didn't even havesense enough to find a place to stay. I thought about it, but didn't knowhow, and anyhow the most important thing was finding the things thatmoved in the pictures—and sang in the box.

　　"I saw a woman go up to a policeman and ask him where something was andhe told her, so I did that, too. Asked him where you went to hear grandopera. And he pointed. I was right there by it.

　　"I heard some people talking about going in to get tickets. So I thought

　　I had better get a ticket.

　　"But they didn't have any. They were all gone.

　　"When I came out I was almost crying. Then a smiling man outside steppedup to me and said he had tickets and he'd let me have one for tendollars. I was so glad he had them! Ten dollars seemed a good deal—but Ididn't think much about it.

　　"Then I had my ticket and just two dollars left.

　　"But that night at the opera I didn't know whether I had two dollars, orno dollars, or a thousand dollars. At first I was frightened becauseeverybody but me had on such beautiful clothes. But soon I was too crazyabout their clothes to care—and then after the music began—

　　"Oh, Katie! Suppose you'd always dreamed of something and never beenable to catch up with it. Suppose you'd not even been able to reallydream it, but just dream that it was, and then suppose it all came—No,I can't tell you. You'd have to have lived in Centralia—and been aminister's daughter.

　　"My heart sang more beautifully than the singers sang. 'Now you havefound it! Now you have found it!' my heart kept singing.

　　"When all the other people left I left too—in a dream. For it hadpassed into a dream—into a beautiful dream that was going to shelter itfor me forever.

　　"I stood around watching the beautiful people getting into theircarriages. And I couldn't make myself believe that it was in the sameworld with Centralia.

　　"Then after a while it occurred to me that all those people were goinghome. Everybody was going home.

　　"At first I wasn't frightened. Something inside me was singing over andover the songs of the opera. I was too far in my dream to be muchfrightened.

　　"Then all at once I got—oh, so tired. And cold. And so frightened I didnot know what to do. My dream seemed to have taken wings and flown away.All the beautiful laughing people had gone. It was just as if I woke up.And I was on the strange streets all alone. Only some noisy men whofrightened me.

　　"I hid in a doorway till those men got by. And then I saw a womancoming. She was all alone, too. She had on a dress that rustled andlovely white furs, and did not seem at all frightened.

　　"I stepped out and asked her to please tell me where to go for the night.

　　"Some time I'll tell you about her, too. Now I'll just tell you that itended with her taking me home with her to stay all night. She made a lotof fun of me—and said things to me I didn't understand—and swore atme—and told me to 'cut it' and go back to the cornfields—but I wascrying then, and she took me with her.

　　"She kept up her queer kind of talk, but I was so tired that the minute Iwas in bed I went to sleep.

　　"The next morning she told me I had got to go back to the woods. I said Iwould if there were any woods. But there weren't. She laughed and saidmore queer things. She asked me why I had come, and I told her. First shelaughed. Then she sat there staring at me—blinking. And what she saidwas: 'Poor little fool. Poor little greenhorn.'

　　"She asked me what I was going to do, and I said work, so I could staythere and go to the opera and see beautiful things. She asked me whatkind of a job I was figuring on and told me there was only one kind wouldlet me in for that. I asked her what it was and she said it was herline. I asked her if she thought I was fitted for it, and she looked atme—a look I didn't understand at all—and said she guessed the men sheworked for would think so. I asked her if she'd say a good word to themfor me, and then she turned on me like a tiger and swore and said—No,she hadn't come to that!

　　"It was a case of knowing without knowing. I was so green that I didn'tknow. And yet after a while I did. As I look back on it I appreciatethings I couldn't appreciate then, thank her for things I didn't knowenough to thank her for at the time.

　　"She was leaving that day for San Francisco. She gave me ten dollars, andtold me if I had any sense I'd take it and go back to prayer-meeting. Shesaid I might do worse. But if I didn't have any sense—and she said ofcourse I wouldn't—I was to be careful of it until I got a job. She toldme how to manage. And I was to read 'ads' in the newspaper. She told mehow to try and get in at the telephone office. She had been there once,she said, but it 'got on her nerves.'

　　"She told me things about girls who worked in Chicago—awful things. ButI supposed she was prejudiced. The last things she said to me was—'Theopera! Oh you poor little green kid—I'm afraid I see your finish.'

　　"But I thought she was queer acting because she led that queer kindof a life."

　　Ann had paused. And suddenly she hid her face in her hands, as if it wasmore than she could face. Katie was smoothing her hair.

　　"Katie, as the days went on it was just as hard to believe that the worldof the opera was the same world I was working in—right there in the samecity—as it had been the first night to believe it was the same world asCentralia. I learned two things. One was that the Something Somewhere wasthere. The other that it was not there for me.

　　"The world was full of things I couldn't understand, but I couldunderstand—a little better—the woman who wore the white furs.

　　"Oh Katie, you get so tired—you get so dead—all day long puttingsuspenders in a box—or making daisies—or addressing envelopes—ortrying to remember whether it was apple or custard pie—

　　"And you don't get tired just because your back aches—and your headaches—and your hands ache—and your feet ache—you get tired—that kindof tired—because the city doesn't care how tired you get!

　　"I often wondered why I went on, why any of them went on. I used to thinkwe must be crazy to be going on."

　　She was pondering it—somberly wistful. "Though perhaps we're not crazy.Perhaps it's the—call. Katie, what is it? That call? That thing thatmakes us keep on even when our Something Somewhere won't have anything todo with us?"

　　Katie did not reply. She had no reply.

　　"At last I got in the telephone office. That's considered a fine place towork. They're like Miss Osborne; they believe it is one of thefundamental principles of life that all must have pleasures. But theywere like the pleasures of Centralia—not God-fearing, exactly, but sodutiful. They didn't have anything to do with 'calls.'

　　"The real pleasures were going over the wire. It was my business to makethe connections that arrange those pleasures. A little red light wouldflash—sometimes it would flash straight into my brain—and I'd say'Number, please?'—always with the rising inflection. Then I'd get theconnection and Life would pass through the cords. That was the closest Icame to it—operating the cords that it went through. There was a wholecity full of it—beautiful, laughing, loving Life. But it was on thewire—just as in Centralia it had been in the pictures—and in the box.And oh I used to get so tired—so tight—operating the cords for Life.Sometimes when I left my chair the whole world was one big red light. Andat night they danced dances for me—those little red lights."

　　She brushed her hand before her eyes as if they were there again and shewould push them away. "Katie," she suddenly burst forth, "if you ever dopray—if you believe in praying—pray sometimes for the girl who goes toChicago to find what you call the 'joy of living.' Pray for the pilgrimswho go to the cities to find their Something Somewhere. And whatever youdo, Katie—whatever you do—don't ever laugh at the people who killthemselves because they're tired of not having any fun!"

　　"But wasn't there any fun, dear?" Katie asked after a moment.

　　Ann did not speak, but looked at Katie strangely. "Yes," she said.

　　"Afterwards. Differently."

　　They were silent. Something seemed to be outlining itself between them.

　　Something which was meaning to grow there between them.

　　"There came a time," said Ann, "when all of life was not going overthe wire."

　　And still Katie did not speak, as if pushed back by that thing shapingitself between them.

　　"Your Something Somewhere," said Ann, very low, "doesn't always comein just the way you were looking for it. But, Katie, if you get verytired waiting for it—don't you believe you might take it—most anyway it came?"

　　It was a worn and wistful face she turned to Katie. Suddenly Katiebrushed away the thing that would grow up between them and laid her cheekupon Ann's hair. "Poor child," she murmured, and the tears were uponAnn's soft brown hair. "Poor weary little pilgrim."