Sometimes in the
mornings she cried a little, without knowing why. Sometimes she said a
vague, sad little thing that brought her mother's heart, stone cold, to
her mouth. But her talk was mostly very bright and hopeful. Ten minutes
before Queed came in she had been telling Mrs. Paynter about something
she would do in the fall. If sometimes you would swear that she knew
there would never be another fall for her, her very next remark might
confound you. So her little face turned easily to the great river with
the shining farther shore, and, for her part, there would be no sadness
of farewell when she embarked.
By marvelous work, Queed closed up the twenty-five minutes of time he
had bestowed upon Fifi, and pulled into supper only three minutes behind
running-time. After-wards, he sat in the Scriptorium, his face like a
carven image, the sacred Schedule in his hands. For it had come down to
that. Either he must at any cost hew his way back to the fastness of his
early days, or he must corrupt the Schedule yet again.
Every minute that he took away from his book meant just that much delay
in giving the great work to the world.
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