Foster’s house, Ethan Randolph dreamed vividly, of two children whose portraits, painted on rough board, hung with a fair-haired woman’s over the room’s writing desk. The children approached the handsome sleigh bed, then pulled him to his feet. They showed him a game played with a stick and a hoop. The woman smiled at their antics, playing a soft tune on the three-stringed instrument in her lap. The air was scented with pine. Ethan gave up trying to make the children understand that he was lame because he realized, just before the dream ended, that he was not. He awoke feeling so refreshed and whole, the pain in his leg surprised him. Eli Mercer, dressed in his traveling clothes, sat by the bed. “I did wake thee, Friend Ethan?” “No. You are as still as Judith.” Eli smiled. “Or she is as still as her father?” “Of course, that way around.” Ethan rubbed the side of his face that had been buried in the soft pillow. “I am no lark.” “True. A night owl, thee. Who kindly tended to my Judith in her distress while this lark slept.
