closely. "Never mind," she said, "we will soon get rid of all this. You know better than it all, so it won't be hard."
"But listen," said Marjorie, "I want to ask you a question. Why is it that when I do know that Sequence is nothing—is an emptiness with nothing around it, just like Superstition;—and that Fear, which seems to govern it, is the same;—why is it that I still feel these bonds? You know I explained to you—"
"Try to think it out for yourself," said the little girl.
Marjorie hesitated. "The boy thought," she said at last, "that the whole trouble lay in the explaining. That going back over the reasons and causes made them seem real;—and—and—it made me angry."
"Why?" asked the little girl. "Why did you wish to explain?"
"Well, because—" said Marjorie,—"because I did not want either of you to think that I had no excuse for feeling the bonds;—I did not want you to think
