slip away, and when I look my last look, when it gets dimmer and
dimmer to me, I want the last thing I see to be them mountains where
William and me worked and was so happy! Seems like I can't bear it
to have my sight slip away here in Chicago, where there's nothing I
want to look at! And then to have a little left--to have just a
little left!--and to know I could see if I was there to look--and to
know that when I get there 'twill be--Oh, I'll be rebellious-like
here--and I'd be contented there! I don't want to be complainin'--I
don't want to!--but when I've only got a little left I want it--oh,
I want it for them things I want to see!"

"You will see them," insisted the girl passionately. "I'm not going
to believe the world can be so hideous as that!"

"Well, maybe so," said the woman, rising. "But I don't know where
'twill come from," she added doubtfully.

She took her back to the doctor's office and left her in the care of
the stolid Emma. "Seems most like I'd been back home," she said in
parting; and the girl promised to come and see her and talk with her
about the mountains. The woman thought that talking about them would
help her to remember just how they looked.

And then the girl returned to the library. She did not know why she
did so. In truth she scarcely knew she was going there until she
found herself sitting before that same secluded table at which she
and the woman had sat a little while before. For a long time she sat
there with her head in her hands, tears falling upon a pad of yellow
paper on the table before her.