What she watched now made no demands on anyone. There was no impatience there, and no impatience in her, either. She lay on her side, and her hand beat gently on the pillow in obedience to words, an old tune, that had been sounding in her head for some time, and that she now began to listen to. It was an old song, very slow, a tenor voice from long ago and far away. She listened idly.

Oft in the stilly night,

Ere slumber’s chain hath bound me,

Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

Over and over and over again, the same words, the same kind, simple words. Mrs. Bagot thought she must have heard that song a hundred times or more.

Oft in the stilly night,

Ere slumber’s chain hath bound me,

Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood’s years,

The words of love then spoken,

The eyes that shone

Now dimmed and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken.

It was a very kind song. She had never noticed the words before, even though she knew them well. Loving words, loving eyes, loving hearts. The faraway voice she listened to was joined by others, as the first bird of dawn is joined by other birds, all telling the same story, telling it over and over again, because it is the only story they know.

There was the song, and then there was the small shape that drifted uncomplainingly from distant horizon to still more distant horizon. Mrs. Bagot closed her eyes. She felt herself being beckoned to a place where she could hide, for the time being.