It seemed but yesterday when he had gone rather early upstairs, and after sitting a minute or two in front of his fire, had heard that timid knock on the door, which had meant the opening of a mother's heart to him.

He felt it would scarcely be strange if that knock came again, and if she entered once more to be with him.
From the moment he came upstairs, the rest of the world was shut down to him; he entered his bedroom as if he entered a sanctuary that was scented with the incense of her love.

He knew exactly how her knock had sounded when she came in here that night when first it burned for him: his ears were alert for it to come again.

Once his blind tapped against the frame of his open window, and, though knowing it was that, he heard himself whisper--for she could hear his whisper--"Come in, mother," and sat up in his deep chair, looking towards the door.

But only the blind tapped again, and outside in the moonlit dusk an owl hooted.
He remembered she liked owls.