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.
It was a cloud of black smoke, and out of the heart of it came a
flurried voice whispering over and over, "His plans for you--his plans
for you--his plans for you--" And then there was nothing.

He woke refreshed, stretched himself gingerly--as one might have a
care against too quick or too long a pull upon a frayed elastic--and,
getting to his feet, went blinking to the window and touched the shade
so that it flew up, letting in a pale sunset.

He looked out into the lemon-colored light and smiled wanly at the