# Rare Earth/Chapter 27

Chapter XXVII
It was Christmas Eve in Galvey. Outside it was bitingly cold. The wind crashed angrily against the windows, snorting, fuming and making a mighty uproar.
"I guess," mused Scobee, "it wants to come in for awhile to warm its fingers by the fire."
The night was very clear. The trees stood out like bleak sentinels watching over the broad sweep of the fields. The clear-cut moon looked as though it had been nipped by the frost. But there was no snow, nor the slightest suggestion of cloud in the sky.
Hung Long Tom walked over to the window. "No comfort-loving cloud would stay out of doors on such a night," he said whimsically. "I guess they're all home, tucked ​warm in their beds. Tonight most roads in the land are deserted."
Before the open-hearth Jethro Trent lay stretched in a great arm-chair. He was not joining in the conversation. Nor was he sleeping. He sat there as though unconscious of all that was about him gazing moodily into the flames. Thanks to his efforts the farmstead of Linda Joel was snug and warm that night. She had plenty of wood to keep a good fire burning. All cracks in the walls had been calked with cement. The house had never been in such splendid condition. Her pantry was supplied with ample food. That very afternoon he had taken a turkey to her. Also a large jar of mincemeat and a crate of cranberries. Benda's only sister had come down from Chicago to spend Christmas with her. So she would not be alone.
In the chimney-corner, Scobee sat wrapped in pleasant dreams. Tonight it was Christmas Eve. Tonight he would listen for the songs of his mother. Perhaps Christmas carols would echo through the house.
"Hail! smiling morn That tips the hills with gold—"
Gone was his despair. He was still rather sad but his sadness was seasoned with patience. How beautiful the room seemed that night, so homelike, strange and still.
On the opposite side of the hearth to Jethro, Roma sat in an old rocker. She held a half dozen socks in her lap which she was making believe to darn. She had to have something to do with her hands. She was unaccountably nervous. But her mind was not on her darning. She was thinking how beautiful it was on Christmas Eve to have her family all together once more grouped around the fire.
In the window a cheerful lamp glowed steadily, but the light was subdued. It scarcely reached to the group in the firelight glow. Only the flickering flames of the blazing pine log lighted up their faces. It was a drowsy hour and more than once Jethro Trent's eyes closed and he nodded. As the log in the grate would snap and crackle he would suddenly ​wake up again. There was scarcely any talking. None of them seemed in a mood for conversation.
Hung Long Tom walked silently about. He brought a cushion to Roma so that she might be more comfortable.
And now there came a loud knocking upon the front door. It was still quite early so there was nothing extraordinary in their receiving a visitor. Hung Long Tom walked out into the hall and opened the door. On the threshold he beheld a tall gaunt stranger. The man was rather poorly dressed but he had a face so kind and friendly Hung Long Tom was swayed toward him at once.
"Come in out of the cold," he said cordially.
The man did so and Hung Long Tom closed the door.
"I hate to intrude upon you," said the stranger, "but a while ago down yonder in the road I came across a tiny dog that was almost frozen. He lay shivering in the cold. It was Christmas Eve in the land, everyone was happy, but there wasn't much happiness for ​him. So I picked him up and put him inside my coat to warm. Even then he suffered terribly and I could feel his body quivering against mine. I knew he'd die of exposure unless I stopped for a bit at a farm-house. Yours was the first I chanced upon."
"We are glad to have you," declared Hung Long Tom. "The chance passerby who wishes to rest is always welcome here. Throw off your coat and come in with us by the fire."
The stranger complied after which Hung Long Tom introduced him to Jethro Trent, Scobee and Roma.
"I don't know your name," he said, "but anyway this is the family of Trent."
"Names," said the stranger, "after all, what are names?"
As the man spoke Jethro Trent recognized him as the wayfarer with whom he had talked in the early summer on the Joel farm. It was distinctly a pleasure to meet him once again.
"You are right," agreed Jethro, "names mean nothing. The only things that draw men together are mutual interests. I am glad that ​you have had occasion to pass once more through Galvey."
"I would not have stopped," explained the stranger, "except that I found this dog by the roadside almost frozen."
"Put him on the hearth-rug," suggested Jethro. "It is very warm there."
He took the dog from the hands of the stranger and placed him on a soft cushion. He patted the small cold body and stroked the dog's head. The dog in appreciation licked his hand.
Roma rose to her feet. "I will get him something to eat," she said. "There is some lambstew still warm on the stove. I think he'd like that."
She soon returned with a large soup dish which she placed before the dog. He rose to his feet, walked around the savory dish several times as though he could scarcely believe his eyes. He wagged his tail so jubilantly it very nearly came off. At last he started eating and even though he ate sloppily and made far too much noise with his chewing, it was good to ​watch him. When he could hold no more he rolled over on his side and promptly went to sleep.
In the meantime Hung Long Tom had drawn another chair up to the fireside into which the stranger settled contentedly.
"You must remain here for the night at least," said Jethro emphatically. "It would be cruel to take the dog out upon the cold roads again."
"It is good of you to take me like this into your home," the stranger said, "when you do not even know me."
"Do you not remember," said Jethro, "we met last summer. I cannot see wherein we are good because we share our hearth with you. Am I any less warm because you, too, are comfortable? Is the fire less bright because you are sharing it with me? If so, I cannot understand such reasoning."
The stranger smiled wistfully. "Perhaps you are right," he mused. "Anyway I shall stay until morning." He paused for a moment, then he said slowly, "Tonight is Christmas ​Eve and it is good to find shelter in a cozy home. Christmas Eve is a strange night. All over the world folks gather around the fire, speaking in awe, at peace, waiting, waiting. They are waiting for a miracle. Unknown to themselves they expect a miracle even as almost two thousand years ago there was a miracle on Christmas morning. Christmas Eve is the only night in the year when all men are really brothers, when the fires of hatred are banked in their hearts." As the stranger spoke, Roma looked intently
into his face. And she thought that she had never seen a face that reflected so much suffering and yet so much beauty. The features were a trifle austere but the eyes were filled with tenderness. One could easily imagine such a man stopping by the wayside to care for a whimpering dog.
There was a lovely feeling of contentment in that room. The log spluttered and sang joyously in the grate. Hung Long Tom fetched a bowl of apples and a jug of cider but the stranger refused everything.
​"I myself am not hungry," he said, "nor am I particularly tired. For the dog's sake I had to pause. See, he is enjoying himself immensely. I think even in these few moments he has grown fatter."
Scobee in the chimney-corner listened to the desultory conversation. The voice of the stranger was soft-pitched, lovely. He almost imagined that he could visualize his appearance. Was that Chinese philosopher right who had declared that the sum of one's faculties is always ten? Had his sense of hearing become more acute. The voice of the stranger affected him oddly.
He felt as though some great beauty enveloped the house that night Perhaps the feeling was only natural for it was Christmas Eve and there is much of magic around on such a night. Still the feeling of beauty persisted even after he had gone to his room and undressed.
When at last he had finally snuggled into bed, sleep came to him almost instantly, a calm refreshing sleep. And silence descended ​over the house far off there on the prairie while the wind roared and shrieked about the eaves and the pine log still blazed merrily on the hearth in the living-room.
Hours later it seemed as though he could hear music, music that was so sweet and low it might almost have drifted to him from the stars, through the mist of moonrise. The wind had died down or fled to the lands west of the setting sun.
Scobee stirred restlessly in his sleep. A faint perfume suggestive of lavender wafted through the room. It seemed as though a door had opened and closed softly. Even in his sleep he smiled. It was good to nestle in such a comfortable bed.
And then a soft hand was placed upon his forehead. He did not stir, he did not wish to break the wonder of this moment, for he knew that once more his mother had returned to him.
She was sitting by his bedside. He could hear the sound of her gentle breathing. Very softly she was singing.
"Little Boy, 'tis morning. Within the window The jolly sun is peeping, Laughing because My Little Boy's still sleeping.
Safe through the night, Who guardeth all things best, Has watched by your bed And brought you Strength and rest."
As she finished the last line, she leaned gently forward and kissed his lips.
"Wake up, Little Boy," she whispered. "Wake up. It is morning. You have been sleeping long enough."
Slowly Scobee opened his eyes and gazed about him. His eyes were almost dazzled by the warm sun that was pouring in through the window in a riot of gold. It was morning and he could see again! He sprang from his bed.
For months he had been plunged in darkness, living in the Sad Country of the blind. And now once more vision had been granted ​to him. He glanced about as though expecting to behold the beloved figure of his mother still there. But of course he was alone in the room. Once more she had come to him in dreams. But this time the dream was real. She had bade him awaken and now he could see. She had watched over him, guided his path since childhood and now she had led him to the light.
Steinlin had said that it was possible that some day he might get his sight back. Science could do nothing but mother-love is the greatest force in the world. It can and often does accomplish miracles. Scobee refused to think of his returned vision as purely a natural phenomenon. His mother had been in that room, just as she had always been in the house, just as she had been on the battlefield of France. On the air there still lingered a suggestion of old lavender.
Almost on tiptoe as though he were leaving a sacred place he stole from the room and up the old attic stairs. For a moment he stopped and sat on the lower step even as a child he ​had sat as though at his mother's knee pouring out his troubles and listening for the echo of her voice.
"Mother," he whispered, "I know that you are there, that you will always be with me. Little mother."
Then he crept up the stairs to his beloved attic. Hung Long Tom sat dozing in his favorite corner.
"I don't know how to explain it," said Scobee brokenly, "but this morning I imagined that my mother was sitting by my bedside. She bade me wake up and when I opened my eyes, I could see. After all these endless black months I could see again."
Hung Long Tom rose to his feet. For a moment he could not trust his voice. He placed his arm about Scobee's shoulder and led him over to the portrait of his mother which he had completed blind after having seen a vision of her on the battlefield.
At last Hung Long Tom spoke, softly, meditatively.
"Mother-love is always hard to explain," he ​said. "But somehow I knew that you would not remain forever blind for see, the face of your mother is happy in the picture. There is a suggestion of a smile about her lips. Ardell would not be smiling if her boy had to remain forever blind. All your life your dear mother watched over you, nor did she fail you when you needed her most."
So they stood and gazed at her picture. Neither of them wanted to speak right then. Hung Long Tom smiled wistfully. His boy would not need him much longer now. He was very very old and yearned for rest. Perhaps eventually he would return to his home in China, to the garden in which the beautiful Lotus Blossom had laughed and died. Maybe in time when his body crumbled back into dust, a chance wind would blow it to that far flung spot where her ashes reposed. Not yet, but some day, when the infirmities of age grew acute he would return home. After all these years the grip of his own country had fastened upon him. Life, stripped of its glamor, is but a little journey.
​At last Scobee walked down the stairs and out into the sunshine. What cared he that it was bitingly cold, that the air was clear and sharp? He was coatless and wore no hat. All that mattered was that he could see. Once more he could behold the golden glory of the sun. His body for months had been dry and parched, parched for light, thirsting for sunshine. And now it drank in the glory of the morning. As though unconscious of what he was doing he walked out across the fields in the direction of the home of Dallis. He must tell her the glad news. At last he was free! Now they could be married. In his ecstasy he threw up his hands toward the sun, as though in worship, as though in prayer. Then suddenly he fell upon his face in the soil and sobbed. His hands clutched at the soil, at the strong bed of earth. And as he lay there something of the strength of the soil seemed to seep into his body.
Earth, rare earth!
The End.