, huskily,
"Mighty glad!"

Here was a marvel, a miracle, for which he had never dared even hope.
He thought of Allie and a lump came into his throat. She had reached
the stars. His girl! he would be mighty glad, too--

Gray was speaking, and in his voice was a new, vibrant quality, a new
vigor. "Now you'll know why this is the biggest day of my life; why I
thought those men would never go. I'm shaking all over, Gus. You'll
have to run the bank for a while; I'm too young and irresponsible. I'm
going out to buy a hoop and a jumping rope and a pair of roller
skates." Again he laughed, boyishly; then, with a slap that knocked the
breath from Briskow's lungs, he walked lightly into his own office and
seized his hat.

For a long time the father sat at his big, empty desk, staring, smiling
into space. This would make Ma well. Money wasn't altogether a worry,
after all; it bought things that nothing else could buy--stars and--and
things.

From the expressions upon the faces Gray passed in leaving the bank, he
realized that his own must wear a grin; but, in spite of his dignified
effort to wipe it off, he felt it widening. Well, this was his day to
grin; his day to dance and caper. People were too grave, anyhow. They
should feel free to vent their joy in living. Why act as if the world
were a place of gloom and shadow? Why shouldn't they hop, skip, and
jump to and from business, if so inclined? He visualized the streets of
the city peopled with pedestrians, old and young, fat and thin, thus
engaged, and he laughed aloud. Nevertheless, it was a good idea, and
when he became mayor, or perhaps the junior Senator from Texas, he'd
advocate public playgrounds for grown-ups. "Bob" would help him put it
through. There was a girl who would never grow old. They would grow
young together. He caught sight of his reflection in a shop window and
slowed down his gait, telling himself that pending the time his new
idea was definitely planted it might be well to walk in the
old-fashioned manner. Men of substance, bankers, for instance,
shouldn't rush through the streets as if going to a fire; they
shouldn't dash over crossings and take curbstones as if they were
hurdles. It wasn't being done. No reason, however, why a banker
shouldn't throw his shoulders back and walk springily upon his toes.

When he beheld the familiar painted sign, "Tom and Bob Parker. Real
Estate and Insurance," he paused. The mere sight of the little wooden
building,