Up the frosty silence, tremulous and distant, climbed the sound of music—a harp and a violin playing. His brain set the playing to words:
“It came upon the midnight clear
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold.”
Its beauty quieted his dreads, lifting his spirit to the world of legend. It hushed, halted and again commenced. It was like the feet of Jesus on the London house-tops, bringing safety to sinful men. Perhaps Uncle Waffles heard it.
It ceased. A man’s voice rang out: “Fine and frosty. Three o’clock in the morning. A Happy Christmas. All’s well.”
Peter had turned his eyes to the window where the moon sat balanced on a cloud; now that the stillness was again unbroken, he looked down at the faces on the pillow. The eyes of Glory were wide open. She showed no surprise at seeing him there. How long had she been watching?
He stooped over her and whispered, “It was the waits, Glory.”
Her arms reached up and dragged him down. “Peter, Peter, you don’t hate me, do you? I can’t help being a coward.”