been reading before his illness and sat down in the rocking chair, wrapped in the old silkolene eiderdown with poppies on it.
"'Winter had passed: violets poured in blue streams and cataracts beneath white veils of almond blossom; and the warm wind carried the fragrant promise of orange and lemon trees.'
"Joey?"
He was still except for that loud, tearing breathing. She put her head down on the bed by his hand, and when she lifted it there was a dark patch on the quilt.
She opened the window cautiously. The night was held in the soft deep silence that comes before snow. Then a tiny thread of sound was spun from the unbelievable silence, a chime of sleigh bells that drew near, pure and clear as bells of ice, and passed, and died away. Who were those people? Where were they going? She would never know, and she would never forget them.
Later she woke from a deep sleep, sitting up so suddenly that she felt sick and dizzy, crying, "Yes, Joe?" But there was no answer. Joe was quiet; even the difficult breathing was still.
