outside reminded her of the owls that hooted at
Ashbridge--she had imitated their note, saying it sounded like sleep.
. . . She had sat in a chintz-covered chair close to him when at
Christmas she paid him that visit, and now he again drew it close to his
own, and laid his hand on its arm. Petsy II. had come in with her, and
she had hoped that he would not annoy Michael.

There were steps in the passage outside his room, and he heard a little
shrill bark. He opened his door and found his mother's maid there,
trying to entice Petsy away from the room next to his. The little dog
was curled up against it, and now and then he turned round scratching at
it, asking to enter. "He won't come away, my lord," said the maid; "he's
gone back a dozen times to the door."

Michael bent down.

"Come, Petsy," he said, "come to bed in my room."

The dog looked at him for a moment as if weighing his trustworthiness.
Then he got up and, with grotesque Chinese high-stepping walk, came to
him.

"He'll be all right with me," he said to the maid.

He took Petsy into his room next door, and laid him on the chair in
which his mother had sat. The dog moved round in a circle once or twice,
and then settled himself down to sleep. Michael went to bed also, and
lay awake about a couple of minutes, not thinking, but only being, while
the owls hooted outside.

He awoke into complete consciousness, knowing that something had aroused
him, even as three days ago when the telephone rang to summon him to his
mother's deathbed. Then he did not know what had awakened him, but now
he was sure that there had been a tapping on his door. And after he had
sat up in bed completely awake, he heard Petsy give a little welcoming
bark. Then came the noise of his small, soft tail beating against the
cushion in the chair.

Michael had no feeling of fright at all, only of longing for something
that physically could not be. And longing, only longing, once more he
said:

"Come in, mother."

He believed he heard the door whisper on the carpet, but he saw nothing.
Only, the room was full of his mother's presence. It seemed to him that,
in obedience to her, he lay down completely satisfied. . . . He felt no
curiosity to see or hear more. She was there, and that was enough.

He woke again a little after dawn. Petsy between the window and the door
had jumped on to his bed to get out of the draught of the morning wind.
For the door was opened.

That morning the