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 know, only that when I looked at him, the vague little whiff of memory of the message, flitted before me; and I seemed to feel something within me, trying to brush away my contempt for the whole looseness of the man;—some sort of vitality that was trying to find a way to express itself through me and reach him;—and so I just opened the way and let it come."

"How did you open the way?" asked the Dream.

Marjorie smiled. "It was curious," she said; "for it didn't seem as if I could love him at all, especially after I had talked to him a little; but I knew that love was the only means of opening the way; and so I suddenly thought of how much I loved the violets; and then I just gave myself up to loving them, for love is love, anyway you turn it;—and then, the first thing that I knew, I didn't feel a bit of aversion for him; but was only eager to do or say something that would help;—and then the rest seemed just to come right along. Wasn't it wonderful the way that it turned out? Oh, I'm so happy!"

"And you don't know the rest of the message yet?" asked the Dream.

"No, but it will come. I know that it will come," said Marjorie. "And even if it shouldn't, it doesn't matter so very much, as long as I can use it from underneath, whenever I need it;—but I would just love to remember it, because