But Bibbs carried his fancy further--for there was still
a little poet lingering in the back of his head--and he thought that
up over the clouds, unseen from below, the giant labored with his
hands in the clean sunshine; and Bibbs had a glimpse of what he made
there--perhaps for a fellowship of the children of the children that
were children now--a noble and joyous city, unbelievably white--
It was the telephone that called him from his vision. It rang
fiercely.
He lifted the thing from his desk and answered--and as the small voice
inside it spoke he dropped the receiver with a crash. He trembled
violently as he picked it up, but he told himself he was wrong--he had
been mistaken--yet it was a startlingly beautiful voice; startlingly
kind, too, and ineffably like the one he hungered most to hear.
"Who?" he said, his own voice shaking--like his hand.
"Mary."
He responded with two hushed and incredulous words: "IS IT?"
There was a little thrill of pathetic half-laughter in the instrument.
"Bibbs--I wanted to--just to see if you--"
"Yes--Mary?"
"I was looking when you were so nearly run over. I saw it, Bibbs.
They said you hadn't been hurt, they thought, but I wanted to know
for myself.
Pages:
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413