"She'll get queer going on like this," I said. "Thin veils and light shining through and creatures that feel about us like we do about fishes are all right for old folks who've lived their lives. She's got to live hers and live it the way ordinary folks do."
"Ain't she happy?" asked Mis' MacFarland. "Don't she like rolling a hoop and playing with the other children? Didn't you say only yesterday her mischief would drive you out of your senses?"
I couldn't deny this. Unless you'd seen her as I had, she was just like any other happy little girl, only happier maybe. Like, I said, you could see her heart shine some days, she was so happy. About that time I found out more how she felt. One still night, for no reason, I got out of my bed and went into Moira's room and there she was sitting up in her bed, her eyes like starlight.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Why—I—don't know—I'm waiting for something!"
"Waiting! At this time of the night! How you talk! You lie right down, Moira Anderson, and go to sleep," says I, sharp.
"I can't yet," she says, turning to me. "I haven't been able to find it for two days now. I've not been good inside and I drove it away."
"For mercy's sake, speak plain! What did you drive away?"
"Why, don't you know?" says she. "You lose your good when you're unkind or anything."
"Your good!" I says. "Where do you get it from?" For she spoke as though she were talking of something that was outside herself and that came and went.