Then he lay silently thinking, but presently he asked slowly: "And so 'twas me Little Chicken that was making you late, Angel ?" "Yes," said the Angel.
A spasm of fierce pain shook Freckles, and a look of uncertainty crossed his face.
"All summer I've been thanking God for the falling of the feather and all the delights it's brought me," he muttered, "but this looks as if----" He stopped short and raised questioning eyes to McLean.
"I can't help being Irish, but I can help being superstitious," he said.
"I mustn't be laying it to the Almighty, or to me bird, must I ?" "No, dear lad," said McLean, stroking the brilliant hair.

"The choice lay with you.

You could have stood a rooted dolt like all the remainder of us.

It was through your great love and your high courage that you made the sacrifice." "Don't you be so naming it, sir!" cried Freckles.

"It's just the reverse.