When I spoke to him first I spoke in the French language. Before he
answered, the scream of a blue jay in the elms outside set my nerves
aquiver, and I called for Donald and Walter.
As I lay there I could see the Aspen hills from the window, heaps
of crumpled gold bathed in sunshine. Over them sailed the froth from
the silken milkweed; over them drifted the big brown-red butterflies,
luminous as richest autumn leaves.
Some one closed the door softly. The doctor had gone.
The sunlight poured into the window, etching my shadow on the wall
behind. Lying very still there I saw it motionless beside me. _The
shadow was black._