China's gift to Scobee had been tranquillity. It had quieted his nerves. It had caused him to stop fighting against unseen forces. He, too, like China would hope and wait.
It was good to be back in Galvey, back once more to the old attic that had been his beloved play-room ever since childhood. The house knew him, the house loved him, for within the house which his mother had built were all her dreams and love. It was pleasant to sit by the attic window with the November sun streaming in and muse about his mother. Even though he could not see it he could feel the warmth of the sun upon his body, a caressing warmth despite the lateness of the year.
Sometimes Hung Long Tom came and sat with him. Hung Long Tom knew the blessing of silence. At such times he seldom talked. And all the house was still, very, very still. Scobee listened intensely, trying to hear the songs of his mother even as he had always listened as a child, seated on the stairs of the attic in the dark warm hush of the night.
When a child is hurt it always runs and
