She rose slowly to her feet.
"Very well--you've won," she said hardly. "Go back to your saints and
seraphs and angels; I'm beaten. I was mad to think that you ever
cared--go back!" She turned, stumbling, the sobs tearing at her
throat; he had gone several steps before she realized that he was
following her--and all the hardness and bitterness and despair fell
from her like a cloak.
"Oh, Jerry," she whispered, "Jerry, darling, I'm so sorry. And
you've come so far--just to find this! What is it that you want;
can't you tell me?"
She stood tense and still, straining eyes and ears for her
answer--but it was not to eyes or ears that it came.
"Oh, of course!" she cried clearly. "Of course, my wanderer! Ready?"
She stood poised for a second, head thrown back, arms flung wide--a
small figure of Victory, caught in the flying wind.
And, "Contact, Jerry!" she called joyously into the darkness.
"Contact!"
There was a mighty whirring, a thunder and a roaring above the storm.
She stood listening breathlessly to it rise and swell--and then grow
fainter--fainter still--dying, dying--dying--
But Janie, her small white face turned to the storm-swept sky behind
which shone the stars, was smiling radiantly.
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