“I don’t know what to be afraid of.”
“May you never know. Is that all you are in the dark about?” he questioned, seating himself in his study chair, and wheeling around to face the girl in the bay window.
A girl in blue, as she was when she sat in the bay window in Summer Avenue and wrote letters to Aunt Affy; the same trustful eyes, loving mouth, and yellow head.
Now, as then, she did not know what to be afraid of. It was only this last month that she had brought her questions to Roger. Marion had not grown ahead of her to answer her. And Aunt Affy had been so absorbed in Aunt Rody this last year that she had feared to trouble her with questions.
“I have a book-full of questions laid up for you; rather the answers would be a book-full. Life seems full of questions. There’s always something to ask about everything I read.”
“Ask the next book.”
“The next book doesn’t always know.”
“The next person may not always know.”
“I can easily find out,” she laughed.
Then she became grave, and, after a moment’s silence, said: “I wish I knew why we couldn’t have an idea, as we pray a long time for something, whether it were going to be given us or not.”