He could lie there, without pain of body or anxiety of mind, and let vague but bright visions pass through his soul.
His eyes still closed, he listened to the voice.

It was very low, scarcely more than a murmur, yet it was thrillingly sweet.

It might not be a human voice, after all, just the distant note of a bird in the forest, or the murmur of a brave little stream, or a summer wind among green leaves.
He moved a little and became conscious that he was not going back into that winter region of dusk.

His soul instead was steadily moving toward the light.

The beat of his heart grew normal, and then memory in a full tide rushed upon him.