"You are right—you do not know me. But, somehow, I—I feel as if I knew you very well."
"Where do you live?"
"At Clear Lake in the summer—in New York City the rest of the year."
"I have never seen a city," said she, turning and looking up at him. "My father has told me they are full of evil men."
"There are both good and evil."
"Do you live in a palace?"
"It is a very large house, although we do not call it a palace."
"Tell me—please tell me about it."
Then he told her of his home and life and people. She listened thoughtfully. When he had finished she said, "It must be like that wonderful land where people go when they die." From far away they could hear the sound of a steam-whistle. Its echoes were dying in the near forest.
"It is the whistle," said she, looking away, her eyes wide open. "Every time I hear it I long to go. Sometimes I think it is calling me."