The bees droned on and the lark grew fainter and fainter. Billy's eyes
drooped closer shut, his long curling lashes lay on his freckled cheeks
the way they lay sometimes when Aunt Saxon came to watch him. That
adorable sweep of lash that all mothers of boys know, that air of
dignity and innocence that makes you forget the day and its doings and
undoings and think only, this is a man child, a wonderful creature of
God, beloved and strong, a gift of heaven, a wonder in daytime, a
creature to be afraid of sometimes, but weak in sleep, adorable!
Billy slept.
The afternoon train lumbered in with two freight cars behind, and a lot
of crates and boxes to manipulate, but Billy slept. The five o'clock
train slid in and the evening express with its toll of guests for the
Lake Hotel who hustled off wearily, cheerily, and on to the little Lake
train that stood with an expectant insolent air like a necessary evil
waiting for a tip. The two trains champed and puffed and finally
scampered away, leaving echoes all along the valley, and a red stream
of sun down the track behind them from a sky aflame in the west
preparing for a brilliant sunset. The red fingers of the sun touched
the freckles on Billy's cheek lightly as if to warn him that the time
had come. The shutters slammed on at the little station. The agent
climbed the hill to his shack among the pines. Pat came out the door
and stood on the platform looking down the valley, waiting for the
agent to get out of sight.
And Billy slept on!