“What things?”

“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”

“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”

In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:

“ ‘From far, from eve and morning,

And yon twelve-winded sky,

The stuff of life to knit me

Blew hither: here am I.’