The mystic hour draws nigh.  The lights go out, one by one.  The
watchman at the flax mills rings the bell, and they that are waking
count the strokes that tremble in the frosty air.  Eleven o'clock.
Father and mother sit silent by the fire.  The tree in the corner
of the room flashes its tinselry in the dying light.  A cinder
tinkles on the hearth.  Their thoughts are one.  "He would be nine
years old, if he had lived," murmurs the mother.  Their hands grope
for each other, meet and clasp.  Something aches in their throats.
The red coals swell and blur into a formless mass. 

The mystic hour is come.  The town sleeps.  The moon rides high in
the clear heavens.  The wind sighs in the fir trees.  Faint and
far-off across the centuries sounds the chant of angels. 

The hour is come. 

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Back Home, by Eugene Wood