over the house far off there on the prairie while the wind roared and shrieked about the eaves and the pine log still blazed merrily on the hearth in the living-room.
Hours later it seemed as though he could hear music, music that was so sweet and low it might almost have drifted to him from the stars, through the mist of moonrise. The wind had died down or fled to the lands west of the setting sun.
Scobee stirred restlessly in his sleep. A faint perfume suggestive of lavender wafted through the room. It seemed as though a door had opened and closed softly. Even in his sleep he smiled. It was good to nestle in such a comfortable bed.
And then a soft hand was placed upon his forehead. He did not stir, he did not wish to break the wonder of this moment, for he knew that once more his mother had returned to him.
She was sitting by his bedside. He could hear the sound of her gentle breathing. Very softly she was singing.
