Her soul was already up there, and its elysian paths knew the lightness of her feet.
“There goes a bee,” said George, noting a bumbler winging by.
“Yes,” she said, dreamily, “it’s going home.”
“Does everything have a home?” asked Martha.
“Nearly everything,” she answered.
“Do the birds go home?” questioned George.
“Yes,” she said, deeply feeling the poetry of it herself, “the birds go home.”
“Do the bees go home?” urged Martha.
“Yes, the bees go home.”
“Do the dogs go home?” said George, who saw one traveling lonesomely along the nearby road.