For the world had become a horrible phantasm to her, a place of longing and of heartache, a place of temptation and trial, lying under the shadow of tragedy.

And whose world was it that night, as she sat chattering with her father and the man she feared, whose world was it that night, if this is a real world, and not the shadow of a dream?
Was it the colonel's gay world, or John's golden world, or Ward's harmonious world, or poor little Molly's world--all askew with miserable duties and racking heartaches, and grinning sneering fears, with the relentless image of the Larger Good always before her?
Surely it was not all their worlds, for there is only one world.

Then whose was it?
God who made it and set it in the heavens in His great love and mercy only knows.

Watts McHurdie once wrote some query like this, and the whole town smiled at his fancy.

In that portion of his "Complete Poetical and Philosophical Works" called "Fragments" occur these lines:-- "The wise men say This world spins 'round the universe of which it is a part; But anyway-- The only world I know about is spun from out my heart." And perhaps Watts, sewing away in his harness shop, had deciphered one letter in the riddle of the Sphinx..