If man would let me serve him, I should be beautiful!" Looking once more from the window, Bibbs sculptured for himself--in the vague contortions of the smoke and fog above the roofs--a gigantic figure with feet pedestaled upon the great buildings and shoulders disappearing in the clouds, a colossus of steel and wholly blackened with soot.

But Bibbs carried his fancy further--for there was still a little poet lingering in the back of his head--and he thought that up over the clouds, unseen from below, the giant labored with his hands in the clean sunshine; and Bibbs had a glimpse of what he made there--perhaps for a fellowship of the children of the children that were children now--a noble and joyous city, unbelievably white-- It was the telephone that called him from his vision.

It rang fiercely.
He lifted the thing from his desk and answered--and as the small voice inside it spoke he dropped the receiver with a crash.

He trembled violently as he picked it up, but he told himself he was wrong--he had been mistaken--yet it was a startlingly beautiful voice; startlingly kind, too, and ineffably like the one he hungered most to hear.
"Who ?" he said, his own voice shaking--like his hand.
"Mary." He responded with two hushed and incredulous words: "IS IT ?" There was a little thrill of pathetic half-laughter in the instrument.
"Bibbs--I wanted to--just to see if you--" "Yes--Mary ?" "I was looking when you were so nearly run over.

I saw it, Bibbs.
They said you hadn't been hurt, they thought, but I wanted to know for myself." "No, no, I wasn't hurt at all--Mary.