The western sky an immensity of benign
light, and draped with clouds of faintly tinted gauze.
"Another day is dying," Missy began to write; then stopped.
The sun sank lower and lower, a reddening ball of sacred fire and,
as if to catch from it a spark, Missy sat gazing at it as she chewed
her pencil; but no words came to be caught down in pencilled
tangibility. Oh, it hurt!--all this aching sweetness in her, surging
through and through, and not able to bring out one word!
"Well?" enquired mother when, finally, she went back to the house.
Missy shook her head. Mother sighed; and Missy felt the sigh echoing
in her own heart. Why were words, relatively so much less than
inspiration, yet so important for inspiration's expression? And why
were they so maddeningly elusive?
For a while, in her little white bed, she lay and stared hopelessly
out at the street lamp down at the corner; the glow brought out a
beautiful diffusive haze, a misty halo. "Only a signal shewn" . . .
The winking street lamp seemed to gaze back at her. . . "Sometimes a
signal flashes from out the darkness" .
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