"A kettle isn't a voice. Daddy--" He paused a little, then went on,
hesitatingly: "I saw a white swan fly through the door over your
shoulder when you came in to-night."

"No, no, Dominique, it was a flurry of snow blowing over my shoulder."

"But it looked at me with two shining eyes."

"That was two stars shining through the door, my son."

"How could there be snow flying and stars shining, too, father?"

"It was just drift-snow on a light wind, but the stars were shining
above, Dominique."

The man's voice was anxious and unconvincing, his eyes had a hungry,
haunted look. The legend of the White Swan had to do with the passing of
a human soul. The Swan had come in--would it go out alone? He touched
the boy's hand--it was hot with fever; he felt the pulse--it ran high;
he watched the face--it had a glowing light. Something stirred within
him, and passed like a wave to the farthest course of his being. Through
his misery he had touched the garment of the Master of Souls. As though
a voice said to him there, "_Some one hath touched me_," he got to his
feet, and, with a sudden blind humility, lit two candles, and placed
them on a shelf in a corner before a porcelain figure of the Virgin, as
he had seen his wife do. Then he picked a small handful of fresh spruce
twigs from a branch over the chimney, and laid them beside the candles.
After a short pause he came slowly to the head of the boy's bed. Very
solemnly he touched the foot of the Christ on the cross with the tips of