Luigi was not convinced. “Why, Rosa,” he argued, “there must still be giants somewhere.” And that night he went to sleep and dreamed about giants so plainly that the next morning he was surer of them than ever.
But usually at night Luigi lay awake and thought. “Suppose a giant should come,” he would say to himself breathlessly; and he would listen through the hot darkness for giant footsteps in the streets.
Somehow it did not seem as if the giant could come to-night. It was so still that the rattle of the few carts, the rumble of the elevated trains,—all the sounds Luigi knew so well,—were plainer than ever. It was hard to imagine any he did not really hear. Luigi’s ears grew tired of listening, and his eyes half closed.
There was another sound though. Luigi’s ears woke up to it all of a sudden. It was a kind of clambering and crashing,—for all the world as if a giant were stumbling around among the houses. “But of course it can’t be that,” said Luigi firmly, downing his hope.
A pair of giant eyes peered in
Luigi’s own house trembled; and he opened his eyes with a start. There was something—somebody outside his window. He raised himself up and strained to see. Through the twilight of the city night, a great pair of giant eyes peered in upon him.
“Is there some one in there who can see me?” boomed a kindly giant voice.
“Why, yes,” gasped Luigi, “I can see you.”