He turned the big quill questioningly, and again his awed eyes swept the sky.
"A feather dropped from Heaven!" he breathed reverently.

"Are the holy angels moulting?
But no; if they were, it would be white.

Maybe all the angels are not for being white.

What if the angels of God are white and those of the devil are black?
But a black one has no business up there.
Maybe some poor black angel is so tired of being punished it's for slipping to the gates, beating its wings trying to make the Master hear!" Again and again Freckles searched the sky, but there was no answering gleam of golden gates, no form of sailing bird; then he went slowly on his way, turning the feather and wondering about it.

It was a wing quill, eighteen inches in length, with a heavy spine, gray at the base, shading to jet black at the tip, and it caught the play of the sun's rays in slanting gleams of green and bronze.