"Tom," he said softly. "Tom, if that‘s you, if by some chance it is you, Tom, I’ll leave the door unlatched. And if you‘re cold and want to come in to warm yourself just come in later and lie by the hearth, there‘re some fur rugs there."
He shut but did not lock the door.
His wife felt him return to bed, and shuddered. "It‘s a terrible night. I feel so old," she said, sobbing.
"Hush, hush," he gentled her, and held her in his arms.
"Go to sleep."
After a long while she slept.
And then, very quietly, as he listened, he heard the front door open, the rain and wind come in, the door shut. He heard soft footsteps on the hearth and gentle breathing.
"Tom," he said to himself
Lightning struck in the sky and broke the blackness apart. In the morning the sun was very hot. Mr. LaFarge opened the door into the living room and glanced all about, quickly.
The hearthrugs were empty.
LaFarge sighed. "I’m getting old," he said.
He went out to walk to the canal to fetch a bucket of clear water to wash in. At the front door he almost knocked young Tom down carrying a bucket already filled to the brim. "Good morning, Father!"
"Morning, Tom." The old man fell aside. The young boy, barefooted, hurried across the room, set the bucket down, and turned smiling. "It‘s a fine day!"
"Yes, it is," said the old man incredulously. The boy acted as if nothing was unusual. He began to wash his face with the water.
The old man moved forward. "Tom, how did you get here? You‘re alive?"
"Shouldn’t I be?" The boy glanced up.