Jean pressed his hand in hers, and understood. If it had been hard for them to be patient, it had been doubly so for him, groping his way back slowly, the past year, on the upgrade to health.
Softly she repeated a poem that was a favorite of Cousin Roxy’s, and which he had liked to hear.
THE HILLS OF REST
Beyond the last horizon’s rim,
Beyond adventure’s farthest quest,
Somewhere they rise, serene and dim,
The happy, happy Hills of Rest.
Upon their sunlit slopes uplift
The castles we have built in Spain—
While fair amid the summer drift