Some golden, unaccustomed sleep had fallen over the old lady. Stray
shreds of darkness loosened from the general mass and floated off, yet
did not melt entirely from sight. She was shedding some of her evil
thoughts.
'The Sweep!' thought Mother, and turning, found him beside her in the
room. Her husband, to her astonishment, was also there.
'But I didn't think of _you_!' she exclaimed.
'Not a definite thought,' he answered, 'but you needed me. I felt it.
We're so close together now that we're practically one, you see.' He
trailed his Pattern behind him, clothed now with all manner of rich
new colouring, 'I've collected such heaps of new ideas,' he went on,
'and now I want her too. She's in the Story. I'll transfigure her as
well.' He was bright as paint, and happy as a sand-boy. 'Well done,
old Mother,' he added, 'you've done a lot already. See, she's dreaming
small, soft, tender things of beauty that your efforts have let
through.'
He glided across and poured from his own store of sympathy into that
dry, atrophied soul upon the bed. 'It's a question how much she will
be able to transmit, though,' he said doubtfully. 'The spiritual
machinery is so stiff and out of gear from long disuse. In Miss
Waghorn's case it's only physical--I've just been there--but this is
spiritual blackness.
Pages:
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419