August21,1939M

    J.WILLnotbehurried,DoctorCopelandsaid.Justletmebe.Kindlyallowmetosithereinpeaent.’

    Father,usntorushyou.Butittimenowtogetgonefromhere.’

    DoctorCopelandrockedstubbornly,hisgrayshawldrawnclosearoundhisshoulders.Althoughthemwaswarmandfresh,asmallwoodfireburhestove.Thekitwasbareofall

    furnitureexceptthechairinwhichhesat.Theotherroomswereempty,too.MostofthefurniturehadbeeoPortiashouse,awastiedtotheautomobileoutside.Allwasinreadinessexcepthisownmind.Buthowcouldheleavewhentherewasherbeginningnorehertruthnorpurposeinhisthoughts?Heputuphishandtosteadyhistremblingheadandtiorockhimselfslowlyinthecreakingchair.

    Behindthecloseddoorheheardtheirvoices:IdoneallI.Hedetermiosittheretillhegoodaoleave.’

    Buddyandmedoneedtheaplatesand------’

    Usshouldhaveleftbeforethedewdried,saidtheoldman.Asis,nightliabletocatchusontheroad.’

    Theirvoicesquieted.Footstepsechoediyhallwayandhecouldhearthemnomore.Onthefloorbesidehimandsaucer.Hefilleditwithcoffeefromthepotoopofthestove.

    Asherockedhedrankthecoffeeandwarmedhisfingersieam.Thiscouldnottrulybetheend.Othervoicescalledwordlessinhisheart.ThevoiceofJesusandofJohnBrown.ThevoiceofthegreatSpinozaandofKarlMarx.Thecallingvoicesofallthosewhohadfoughtandtowhomithadbeenvouchsafedtopletetheirmissions.Thegrief-boundvoicesofhispeople.Andalsothevoiceofthedead.OfthemuteSinger,whowasarighteouswhitemanofuanding.Thevoicesoftheweakandofthemighty.The,rollingvoiceofhispeoplegrowingalwaysihandihevoiceoft