"Oh, see here!" she cried, with brusque cheerfulness. "You're not so
bad off as you think you are, Bibbs. You're on the mend; and it won't
do you any harm to please your--"
"It isn't that," he interrupted. "Honestly, I'm only afraid it might
spoil somebody's appetite. Edith--"
"I told you the child was too sensitive," she interrupted, in turn.
"You're a plenty good-lookin' enough young man for anybody! You look
like you been through a long spell and begun to get well, and that's
all there is to it."
"All right. I'll come to the party. If the rest of you can stand it,
I can!"
"It 'll do you good," she returned, rustling into the hall. "Now take
a nap, and I'll send one o' the help to wake you in time for you to
get dressed up before dinner. You go to sleep right away, now,
Bibbs!"
Bibbs was unable to obey, though he kept his eyes closed. Something
she had said kept running in his mind, repeating itself over and over
interminably. "His plans for you--his plans for you--his plans for
you--his plans for you--" And then, taking the place of "his plans
for you," after what seemed a long, long while, her flurried voice
came back to him insistently, seeming to whisper in his ear: "He
loves his chuldern--he loves his chuldern--he loves his chuldern"--
"you'll find he's always right--you'll find he's always right--"
Until at last, as he drifted into the state of half-dreams and
distorted realities, the voice seemed to murmur from beyond a great
black wing that came out of the wall and stretched over his bed--it
was a black wing within the room, and at the same time it was a black
cloud crossing the sky, bridging the whole earth from pole to pole.
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