For
the rest there was no sound, no motion.
Once the boy stirred a little and opened his eyes.
"Is that you, Uncle Billy?" he said. "Come an' sit down an' rest a
little, an' then we'll go out. I think I got lost or--or somethin'."
His Uncle Billy was not there. The darkness about him held no human
being save himself, but the vision was just as real to him, and the
coming was just as welcome as though it had all been true.
"Why, how strange you look, Uncle Billy; an' you're a-laughin' at
me--what! does she? Well, I'll go to her just as soon as I get out,
just as soon. How did she find it out? I was goin' to be the first to
tell her. I'm glad she knows it, though."
After a moment he continued:--
"Oh, no, Uncle Billy; I shouldn't ever do that, I couldn't. You've
been too good to me. You've been awful good to me, Uncle Billy--awful
good."
Again silence fell. Thick darkness, like a veil, wrapped the
unconscious child in its folds. Black walls and winding galleries
surrounded him, the "valley of the shadow" lay beyond him, but on his
breast he bore the declaration of his birth, and in his heart he felt
that "peace of God which passeth understanding."
Down in the darkness the water dripped; up in the earth's sky the
stars were out and the moon was shining.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A STROKE OF LIGHTNING.
It was a hot day at Burnham Breaker. The sun of midsummer beat
fiercely upon the long and sloping roofs and against the coal-black
sides of the giant building.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341