“Oh, has he! I'm very glad, Mr. Farwell. Thank you for telephoning. Father, mother and baby all doing well?”
“Fine as silk. I had to tell somebody right away. Now I'm off to send some telegrams to the folks at home. Goodbye.”
Ting-a-ling-ling-ling. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling.
“This is Mrs. Blank is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Will you please tell the doctor that father is dead. He died twenty minutes ago.”
“The doctor was expecting the message, Mr. Jameson,” said Mary gently. This, too, was the voice of a young man, but quiet, subdued, bringing tidings of death instead of life. And Mary, going back to her seat in the twilight, thought of the words of one—Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. The eternity before the baby came, the eternity after the old man went, were solemnly in her thoughts. But they were not cold and barren peaks to her. They were crowned with light and warmth and love.
And into her thoughts came, too, the never-ending story of the 'phone as it was unfolding itself to her throughout the years. Humor and pathos, folly and wisdom, tragedy and comedy, pain, anguish, love, joy, sorrow—all had spoken and had poured their brief story into the listening ear of the helper. And when he was not there, into the ear of one who must help in her own poor way.
O countless, countless messages stored in her memory to await his coming! Only she could know how faithfully she had guarded and delivered them. Only she could—
Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling.