They are so bright, full of flickering life that ebbs and flows and throbs. The warmth burning beneath her skin is nothing compared to their glow. An idea cuts through her fever: If she can touch them, reach them, communicate with them somehow, maybe they will pull the heat away, like a big fire pulling a little one within. Slowly, painfully, against the crying out of her energy-sapped body, Laika raises her head. She stretches her muzzle and touches the glass with her nose.
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The sun dogs appear in flashes of white and yellow to either side of her. Laika barely has time to yelp before images flood over her, playing through her head like awake-dreams. Suns with pointed muzzles howling a joyful welcome, spewing great flames into the dark. Fields of glowing lights, singing songs of the beginning of the world. The sound she hears is the sun itself baying, accompanied by its many brothers and sisters.
In Haverford on the Platte the townspeople still talk of LucyGayheart. They do not talk of her a great deal, to be sure; lifegoes on and we live in the present. But when they do mention hername it is with a gentle glow in the face or the voice, aconfidential glance which says: "Yes, you, too, remember?" Theystill see her as a slight figure always in motion; dancing orskating, or walking swiftly with intense direction, like a birdflying home.
The sun was dropping low in the south, and all the flatsnow-covered country, as far as the eye could see, was beginning toglow with a rose-coloured light, which presently would deepen toorange and flame. The black tangle of willows on the island made athicket like a thorn hedge, and the knotty, twisted, slow-growingscrub-oaks with flat tops took on a bronze glimmer in that intenseoblique light which seemed to be setting them on fire.
Lucy stopped looking at the streaks of rain against the greywall, went to her shabby piano, and played that song again andagain. There were other songs which she associated more closelywith Sebastian himself, but this one was like the studio, like thehours they spent there together. No matter where in the world sheshould ever hear it, it would always drop her down again into thatroom with the piano between two big windows, the coal fire glowingbehind her, the Lake reaching out before her, and the man walkingcarelessly up and down as he sang.
"Very well, I've no objection; the greater the better! Butyou'll soon recover, my dear." He refused to be annoyed. He wasglowing with tolerance. She gave him a defiant look and managed toget her hand away. He considered a moment, then leaned forward andspoke softly, in a confident, teasing tone. "Now see here, Lucy,how far has this nonsense gone?"
Pauline knew she would be quite as popular in the town as Lucy,if she were as pretty. Indeed, she was popular. People said:"Pauline is levelheaded." Since that was the role she affected, sheshouldn't have minded. But she did mind, very much. People werealways stopping her on the street to ask when Lucy would be backfrom Chicago. The old ladies beamed at her with expectant eyes whenthey said how pretty Lucy was growing, as if Pauline should beam,too. She did her best, but a rather greenish, glow-worm gleam itwas.
Lucy did what she could on the shop piano in the morning, andevery afternoon she walked; through the town, and out the road tothe north, where the land lay high and she could look down over thePlatte valley. She began to notice things about the country thatshe had never taken much heed of before. She believed she wasbidding the country good-bye this winter, and that made her eyemore searching. One thing she watched for, every afternoon. Longbefore sunset an unaccountable pink glow appeared in the easternsky, about half-way between the zenith and the horizon. It was nota cloud, it had not the depth of a reflection: it was thin andbright like the colour on a postcard. On sunny afternoons it wassure to be there, a pink rouge on the hard blue cheek of the sky.From her window she could watch this colour come above the tall,wide-spreading cottonwood trees of the town park, where her fatherled the band concerts in summer. Did that pink flush use to comethere, in the days when she was running up and down thesesidewalks, or was it a new habit the light had taken on?
In the absolute stillness of the night (it was getting towardtwelve), Gordon heard the bank telephone ringing again and again.That would be his wife, calling up to know what had become of him.He did not answer the telephone, but he covered the last glowinglumps of the coke fire, put on his overcoat, and started forhome.
Gordon had all the keys. He took off his hat and opened thelocked room. The shades were down, but they did not fit very well,and at the south window streaks of orange sunlight made a glow likecandlelight in the dusky chamber. The closet door was kept open(prevention against moths), and dresses and dressing-gowns werehanging in a row. They had better be burned, he supposed. Besideher desk was a bookcase full of books and bound music scores; achest in his private study at the bank would be the best place forthose. He might look at them some time. Her toilet things were laidout on the dresser, and leaning against the mirror, in a tarnishedsilver frame, was a photograph of Clement Sebastian, with somewriting on it, in German. This Gordon put in his pocket. It was theonly thing he touched. He closed the door softly behind him, andlocked it. 2ff7e9595c
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