"Yep, an' everythin' else is jest like you said, too, only the red streaks have gone from above the trees now."
"But the light is the same, isn't it, Billy?"
"Jest the same as ever. There, teacher, it fair laughed right out at us then."
"Did it, Billy, did it? And is my face turned towards it now, Billy?"
"Not quite. There, now you are facin' it."
"Thanks. Now you mustn't tell me when it comes again—the light—I want to see if I can feel it. I hope—"
He caught his breath and stood with lifted face, as the white light swept it, lingered on it, drew from it reluctantly.
"Thank God," he whispered, and stood trembling. Then, as though to himself, he said softly: "It is as though her soft hand touched these eyes that will never see again."
Then, as the first note of a night-bird came soft and fluted from a distant willow copse, Billy took his hand and drew him up along the corduroy road stretching through the shadows.