Far below, on the ground, in the midst of an orchard so large that it extended all the way to the sides of the earth, sat Berry-berry’s tiny and fragile house. In the surrounding trees of this vast orchard, perched high on all the naked limbs, were tens of thousands of people, all children, and all singing. —All of the people he knew or had ever known were in these branches, and he recognized them, even Annabel and Ralph, but now they were child-people. Each person, of these tens of thousands, sang his individual song, each one separate, different; and it was impossible to make out the words or melodies. Heard from so great a height, all of them together made one sound that was like the wind. But then the wind itself came along, and it made no sound at all. It crept in from all sides, invisible and silent. Clinton knew there was no way to warn anyone of the approach of a menace that could neither be seen nor heard; therefore he had no choice but to witness whatever might take place. So the wind blew, and it blew with such force that all the branches of all the trees, even the highest ones, began to shake so violently that all of the tiny singers were blown away. The branches were bare and silent again and there were no children left in the world.

In the little house, on the top floor, Clinton saw two young men. One of them lay on the bed, fast asleep. The other, seated in a chair, a revolver in his lap, was crying.

Then he himself was back in the room, back into himself. On the bed, Berry-berry was sleeping. Suddenly Clinton knew in an instant all that had taken place. He remembered the scene in the basement on Seminary Street, the terrible telephone call at noon on Sunday, and the nightmare drive to Toledo, the gaping garage doors; and he felt the wetness of his own face and, in his lap, the cold dead weight of the revolver.