Something deep within me--I think
occultists call it the body-spirit--was clamoring frantically to
hold fast to the light, because if that went under I should go
under, too. I tried to keep my eyes upon the trembling spark.
Whereupon the light changed to a sound, the monotonous insistence of
which forced me to be worriedly aware of it. It was--why, it was a
voice, calling, over and over and over again, "_Sophy! Sophy!_"
Somebody was calling _me_. With an immense effort I managed to raise
my eyelids. I was lying in a bed, and caught a drowsy, fleeting
glimpse of four posts.
Four posts upon my bed,
Four angels for my head,
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Bless the bed that I lie on!
Granny used to say that for me at night; only she had said "four
hangels for my 'ead," at which I used to giggle into my pillows. I
hadn't felt so close to Granny since I was little Sophy, in the
rooms over our shop in Boston. She was somewhere around me; if I
went to sleep now, she'd be there when I woke up in the morning. But
the sound that was a calling voice wouldn't let me go to sleep.
Slowly, heavily, I managed to get my eyes open again.
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