A Genuine Shirebound Plot Bunny:

The day after Bilbo leaves the Shire, Merry stays at Bag End helping Frodo distribute Bilbo's gifts and handle the crowds. That night, as Merry prepares for bed, he discovers in his room the wrapped gift that Bilbo left for him.

***

 ‘You’ll live to regret it, young fellow! Why didn’t you go too? You don’t belong here; you’re no Baggins—you—you’re a Brandybuck!’

Lobelia was still shouting as Frodo shut the door, rather more firmly than I’d seen him do in fonder farewells. The heavy round door shut with a satisfying click which was all the more delightful for the door’s muffling qualities. I couldn’t help heaving a sigh of relief.

Frodo’s hand was in his pocket, but he hadn’t disappeared.

I must admit, I was half-disappointed. I should have liked to see old Lobelia’s face. But then, knowing what I know now, ‘twas all for the best.

I heaved a sigh, as I said, and Frodo straightened immediately, from long practice the protective older cousin, though I’m only a dozen or so years younger. Will he still be protecting me when we’re old gaffers together?

Turning towards me, he forced a smile. ‘Did you hear that, Merry? That was an insult, if you like.’

 ‘It was a compliment,’ I shot back, ‘and so, of course, not true.’ I was rewarded by seeing a more genuine smile spread across his face.

We went round the hole then, and evicted a number of young hobbits all bent on discovering Bilbo’s treasure. I told them he’d taken all his treasure with him, but they looked at me with a sceptical air. I must practice, I suppose, if I’m to tell a convincing falsehood...

I had put the kettle on and Frodo had gone to the larger pantry to seek out some sustenance or other—odd, not to be asking Bilbo what he’d like for tea this day—I set out the cups and saucers, the little plates and spoons. Honestly, I was thinking that now that Frodo was the richest hobbit in the Shire and safely of age, he really ought to settle down with a fair young thing and not leave domestic arrangements to younger cousins... in any event, I heard some sort of commotion break out, rather like one of the Hall cats tussling with an overlarge rat, quite interesting to watch.

Following the sound, I came upon Frodo and Sancho Proudfoot in the larger pantry. Frodo was getting rather the worst of it at the moment. I leaned against the doorjamb to watch. ‘Need any help, cousin?’ I said in my most accommodating tone.

Sancho was large and strong for his age; he was twice the size of Pippin though he'd been born a month later than our baby cousin. Frodo, on the other hand, was slimmer than a proper hobbit, but he made up for it in wiriness and determination.

 ‘I'm... fine,’ Frodo gasped, getting the upper hand over Sancho and sending the shovel clattering to the floor. ‘Now... then...’

Sancho twisted in his grip, throwing him on the floor, panting excitedly about some echo or other. ‘It’s mine!’ he kept saying. ‘I found it! Not you!’

 ‘Merry, if you wouldn’t mind,’ Frodo said as he removed Sancho’s foot from his chest by the simple method of a pull and a twist, tumbling the younger hobbit to the floor.

 ‘You’re doing so well, Fro,’ I returned, nonchalantly. Behind me the kettle began to whistle. ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I’ll see to that!’

 ‘Very helpful,’ Frodo grunted behind my back.

Tea must be made just so, and I gave it my full attention, scarcely noticing when the sounds of struggle diminished. Frodo seemed to be marching Sancho down the hall, from the sound of it, and the younger hobbit was protesting bitterly and demanding his shovel. As the noise receded at a steady pace, I figured that Frodo would not need any further assistance on my part.

I heard the front door slam rather louder than it had behind Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and emerged from the kitchen to see Frodo collapsed on a chair in the hall. Looking up at me, he pushed aside some stray curls that had fallen over his forehead in the tussle and sighed.

 ‘Tea’s on,’ I informed him cheerily. ‘Would you like to have it here, or in the parlour with whomever’s about to arrive next?’

 ‘It’s time to close the shop, Merry,’ he said. ‘Lock the door, and don’t open it to any one today, not even if they bring a battering-ram.’

 ‘Ah,’ I said brightly. ‘I sense that a retreat to the study is in order.’

 ‘Good lad, you’ll go far,’ Frodo said, rising wearily, waiting only long enough to watch me shoot the bolt. Most doors in the Shire didn’t have locks in those days, but then, it was generally acknowledged that Bilbo was eccentric, if not completely mad.

 ‘I’ll bring you tea in the study, and then I’m off for a breath of fresh air,’ I said.

He nodded with a wordless wave behind him, not even turning to face me, revealing how exhausted he was from events... I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t slept at all the previous night, what with Bilbo’s disappearance and Gandalf staying over, though the old wizard had disappeared shortly after breakfast and not been heard from since.

I served him his belated cup of tea and slipped out the back door. I trotted down the long sloping path, jumped over the low place in the hedge at the bottom, and took to the meadows for a wonderful ramble in the golden autumnal sunshine.

Chapter 2. By the Book

It was with a feeling of accomplishment that I turned my feet once more towards Bag End and, if my absent-minded cousin had not forgotten, supper.

I had found rather a nice specimen of wild rose rambling over a stone wall, a few late blooms glowing in the sunshine and a number of perfectly formed hips in evidence. I had gathered a pocketful of these to brew into tea, wonderfully refreshing stuff and quite the thing when the nose grows “snifflesome”, as Pip is so fond of saying.

Not that my nose was snifflesome at the time, mind, but it always helps to be prepared against future contingencies.

In any event, I was passing through the Old Orchard planted by Bilbo’s father, planning to snag an apple along the way, when I heard a distinct sniff to one side. It was a good thing I had a pocketful of rose hips, very timely!

Looking over, I spied young Samwise Gamgee (in actuality, I think he’s a bit older than I am, but I’ve never let on) crouched at the base of one of the trees, trimming the grass around the bole.

 ‘Samwise!’ I cried heartily, being in an excellent humour.

He rose, hastily dragging his sleeve across his eyes. ‘Master Merry,’ he mumbled, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on his toes.

 ‘Not sickening with anything, I hope?’ I said more gently, seeing how things were with him.

 ‘No sir, thank you sir,’ he said, and with a bob he bent once more to his work.

 ‘Well that’s good,’ I said, for want of anything better, but then my eye fell upon a book half-hidden by the grass. ‘What’s this?’ I said, stooping to pick it up.

 ‘O Master Merry,’ he said, straightening again, and had to stop to clear his throat. ‘It was Mr. Bilbo’s, he left it for me... Gave my gaffer two sacks o’ potatoes, as you know, a new spade, a woollen waistcoat, and a bottle of ointment.’

 ‘And all he gave you was a battered old book?’ I said curiously. I’d always thought him more grateful than greedy.

I had been right about his earlier distress; tears stood in the eyes that met mine as he snatched the book from me and hugged it to himself. ‘It’s what he gave me,’ he said defiantly, ‘and it’s all I ever wanted. Just think! A book of my own! And it’s the one he used to learn me my letters...’ The outpouring of words ceased suddenly and he flushed, once more staring at his toes as if he thought they’d fall off without constant scrutiny.

I was about to pat him on the shoulder, murmur something understanding about missing Bilbo, when he took me by surprise, thrusting the book at me with a hoarse, ‘Here.’

I took the book automatically. ‘What?’ I said, quite stupidly. I pride myself on knowing the right thing to say, but as I mentioned, he quite took me by surprise.

 ‘Take it back to Mr. Frodo,’ he whispered. His toes remained reassuringly fixed under his steady gaze.

 ‘Take it back—you mean you don’t want it?’ I said, astounded.

 ‘I want it,’ he said so low that I had to strain to hear him.

 ‘Then keep it!’ I said, trying to put it back in his hands. ‘Bilbo gave it to you!’

 ‘No,’ he said, clasping his hands together to avoid taking the book.

 ‘But you can’t give it back to Frodo; he won’t take it!’ I said, mystified by the young gardener’s behaviour.

 ‘I cannot keep it,’ he muttered, even lower. Sudden inspiration seized him and he grabbed at my arm. ‘You take it, Master Merry. I’ll give it to you!’

 ‘No, I...’ I began, before sudden realisation struck. I remembered Bilbo quoting old Hamfast Gamgee. Learn him his letters, Mr. Bilbo! Learn him his letters! Better for him to have his head in the dirt than in the clouds, begging your pardon and all, sir!’

 ‘Your father won’t let you keep the book,’ I guessed, and from the bright colour that infused his cheeks I knew I’d hit the mark. I hugged the book to my breast, suddenly grateful all over again for a loving and understanding father.

I opened the book to a glowing portrait of Lilac, Lily and Larkspur. As I riffled through the pages, from Aster to Yarrow (and “Z” for the buzzing bee), the illustrations nearly jumped off the page. Indeed, I remember perusing these pages of a rainy day at Bag End, long ago, tracing the delicate drawings with a finger and wishing I could draw such things.

 ‘Very well,’ I said, closing the book. ‘I’ll take it.’

 Samwise’s shoulders slumped even more, if possible, but I continued, ‘if you’ll agree to share it with me.’

 He looked up quizzically. ‘I don’t take your meaning, Master Merry, begging your pardon.’

I was thinking furiously. My first inclination had been to ask Samwise to keep the book safe for me, but that wouldn’t work. His gaffer had told him to take it back to Bag End. The book had to be kept someplace where Samwise could have easy access to it in a rare moment of free time.

 ‘Come with me,’ I said.

Unquestioning, he laid down his clippers and fell into step behind me as I strode purposefully through the orchard to the wildflower meadow and the drop beyond. There’s a trail there, a bit tricky, and once I turned an ankle there and had to be carried back to Bag End, but it was the quickest way to the little wood beyond, so all I said was, ‘Watch your step,’ to Samwise as I began to pick my way down the steep rocky slope.

We reached the bottom without untoward incident and walked from thence across the field below and into the wood. It was already quite dark and shadowy, though the Sun was an hour or so from taking her rest.

I found the tree I was wanting. I ran my hand along the bole (standing on his tip-toes Pip could just reach the place) and cautiously inserted my fingers into the large, dry hole where the bole forked into two parts. I felt carefully—no animal was nesting there. Indeed, all my fingers found was a yellowing paper, carefully folded, bearing Pip’s crooked script. Who ever finds this MUST take me fishing!

I smiled and pocketed the note. Turning to Sam, I said, ‘We’ll put the book here. It’ll be safe from rain and weather. I’ll expect you to come and check on it on occasion, to make sure no animal has taken up residence. We wouldn’t want the book to be chewed to bits, now, would we?’

Wondering brown eyes met mine. ‘You want me to check on it?’ he said slowly, as if trying to fit his mind around this new idea. It wasn’t defying his father, not really; it was a request from Mr. Frodo’s cousin, one of the gentry, and so an obligation he was required to honour.

 ‘That’s right,’ I said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Check on it. Sit down, take enough time to look through every page to make sure there’s no damage. If you find damage, of course, we’ll have to find a new home for the tome. But unless and until that happens, I want to keep it right here, in the post office tree. I don’t have to worry about any other hobbits finding it, besides Pip and Frodo; it’s our secret.’

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘And yours,’ I said. ‘I trust you won’t tell another soul, Samwise.’

 ‘Not another soul,’ he breathed.

 ‘Good!’ I said. ‘Now then, it’ll be dark soon. Let us head back.’

Chapter 3. Into Shadow

I elected not to attempt the climb to the Old Orchard in the gathering gloom, and Samwise, I think, was grateful. Like most hobbits, heights made him giddy. I’ve followed young Pip up enough trees that they do not bother me as much as they might, though I’ll never be one to go upstairs to bed, regardless.

In any event, we were skirting the Hill, to take the Hobbiton Road up from the Mill, when we came to old Iris Sandytoes’ place. It had stood empty the past twenty years, since she died with no children and no Will. No one had attempted to claim the property, and by rumour it was haunted.

Of course, I’m much too sensible to pay attention to such rumours. I’ve lived too close to the Old Forest all my life to worry about “haunts”. Now there’s a place I’d not want to spend the night...

I must admit, the deserted smial had a spooky aspect with its broken windows and door hanging on one hinge. Someone really ought to do something about the place. It escapes official notice, I think, because it’s not too near the road.

Samwise stopped. I touched his shoulder with a querying sound, and he shook his head. ‘We hadn’t oughtn’t be here,’ he said.

 ‘We aren’t going to be here, Samwise-my-lad,’ I said heartily, though the growing dusk did nothing to give credence to my words. ‘We’re going to go right through and out the other end.’

 ‘Full o’ spiders and rats, I don’t wonder,’ he muttered.

 ‘Well, we’re not going in,’ I said. ‘We’re not invited for supper, after all, but we’ll be late for our own suppers if we take the time to go all the way round.’

He nodded gloomily. No doubt he’d have a tongue-lashing from old Hamfast for being late, and for leaving the clippers in the Old Orchard, though perhaps he’d trot right past Number Three and Bag End, right past the good smells emanating from his smial (and, I hope, from Bilbo’s, er, I mean, Frodo’s!), just to retrieve the grass clippers and put them neatly away before returning home. Would he stop so long as to finish the clipping? I rather doubted it. It would be dark by the time he got home. No doubt Master Hamfast would have his son finish by lantern-light, after supper.

 ‘Come, lad,’ I said, clapping him on the shoulder much as I’d hearten a fearful pony. ‘At a trot we’ll be through and gone before the spooks even know we’ve been.’

 ‘Spooks and spiders,’ he grumbled, but I could see him gather his courage.

 ‘Right, then,’ I said briskly, and led the way.

I didn’t know quite what happened at the time, though now, of course, I do.

One moment we were trotting across the deserted yard, through the long tangles of grass and weeds, and suddenly the ground fell out from under me. You’ve stepped in a hole before, haven’t you? You know that awful sinking feeling before your foot hits, and you stumble forward, trying to catch your balance.

Only, in this case, my foot never hit. There was no bottom to the hole.

One moment I was trotting a little ahead of Samwise, and the next moment, I was falling into utter darkness.

***

I don’t think I swooned, for had I done so, I’d have drowned, but I don’t remember hitting the water. It’s so odd; one moment I was trotting along, the Sun at my back sending her last farewell through the trees as she kissed the horizon, and the next, I was swallowed by icy darkness, seized by a sense of frozen cold, an eternity of breathless panic.

Though I could hardly feel myself moving in the numbing cold, my head broke the surface and I gasped for air. In that moment I knew what had happened.

The old abandoned well had been safely covered over with sturdy boards after Pip had the misfortune of falling in a few years earlier, while staying with Bilbo and Frodo. You could have trotted a pony over that well cover without any danger, but now it was gone. We never did find out what happened to it, but that matter was not uppermost in my mind at the time.

 ‘Help!’ I shouted. ‘Help me!’ Surely Samwise had stopped when I’d disappeared. But... what if he thought I’d been eaten by spooks? What if his trot turned into a panicked gallop, and he was racing away at top speed? I could drown here long before any thought to look for me, or ask after me. Frodo was probably buried in a book at that very moment, in front of a crackling fire in the study, no thought of supper (and cousin) having yet occurred to him.

Drown... or freeze to death. My stomach clenched so tight from the icy embrace of the water that it tied itself into painful knots. It was difficult to keep my arms and legs moving as I scrabbled at the side of the well, seeking purchase.

 ‘Master Merry?’

I swear, had Samwise been within arm’s reach I’d have shocked him speechless, throwing my arms about him in sheer relief and joy, perhaps even kissing him soundly on the cheek as I did Frodo when he pulled me from the River, that time in Buckland when I... but that’s another tale.

As it was, I was so cold it was hard to force the words past my chattering teeth, but I was frantic lest he turn away and leave me.

 ‘H-h-h-h-h-h-h-here!’ I managed.

 ‘Master Merry? Is that you down there?’ he asked.

I wanted to snap something to the effect Who do you think it might be? but all I could manage was a chattering I-I-I-I...

 ‘No rope,’ I heard him mutter, an echo in the dark. ‘No light, no branches long enough to reach...’ Perhaps he wasn’t the half-wit his father made him out to be. I had suspected as much for a long while now.

 ‘You hold on now, Master Merry!’ he shouted again. ‘I’m going for help!’

I wanted to tell him to go get Frodo, not to raise a great row. All I needed was for the entire neighbourhood to be roused, hobbits with lanterns and ropes and blankets and hampers of food and soon after I was pulled from the well a party would break out. There’d be a grand celebration, and I’d never live it down.

On second thought, I wanted him to find help close at hand. I didn’t know how long I could last.

The sense of numbing, frozen cold was growing. I couldn’t feel my legs, though I thought I must be kicking them just as hard as may be to stay afloat. I clawed at the smooth stones that lined the sides of the well—too smooth.

The darkness seemed to take on malevolent life, chilling me to the marrow, trying to drag me down forever into the stillness of death and Shadow.

Samwise had gone. He hadn’t waited for an answer, and it’s a good thing, for I couldn’t have answered him to save my life.

Chapter 4. Fond Farewell

I fought the chill as best I could, but it quickly overcame me, sinking deep into my bones, robbing me of my senses until I knew no more. I know now, of course, that Samwise ran to the Mill where he had every confidence of finding help, and quickly too. He might have run farther, and avoided Sandyman the Miller and his son Ted, for whom he has little regard... and I might have drowned in the meantime.

I know that the Miller and his assistants gathered round the edge of the well, shining lanterns into the depths... but I never saw the light. I know they let down ropes, and shouted encouragement... but I was in the grip of a merciless captor, beyond all reason and nearly beyond all aid. I know they groaned as they saw my head sink beneath the water and cried out as I somehow regained the surface... but I heard naught.

Had Frodo not arrived when he did and persuaded them to lower him into the well, the gathering crowd of hobbits would have watched me drown; of that I am certain. As it was, I was cognisant of none of these things; indeed, the first conscious sensation I knew was something smooth in my mouth, with a bursting fragrance upon the palate, that when I swallowed brought warmth and life into my very innards.

I had never been colder in my life, I think, and I heard someone shout in a triumphant voice, ‘He’s shivering!’ I thought it a pity that someone else should be so cold as I was at that moment. Soon I became aware that a glass was being held to my lips and more of that wondrous elixir was entering my mouth, while hands vigorously rubbed my extremities. Ah, the delicate agonies of returning sensation!

When the glass was pulled away again, I defied the painful tingling in my hands to reach for the glass, O how I wanted more of warmth and life!

Somehow I had to make them understand. ‘Is there any more of that?’ I shouted, over the roaring in my ears, though the words came out in the barest whisper. I heard Frodo’s laugh, and my Grandfather Rory’s shout of joy.

 ‘Plenty more where that came from, my lad! Old Winyards, and we’ll drink all dozen bottles Bilbo left me, if it only brings you back to us, dear Merry!’

 ‘Just a glass will do,’ I said, opening my eyes. I didn’t know where I was... some widow’s house not far from where I’d nearly drowned, as I found later, but all I knew was it wasn’t Bag End and it wasn’t the Ivy Bush where my Grandfather was staying.

Grandfather filled my glass, and one of his own, and gently clinked them together in a toast, his eyes overflowing. I was not yet aware enough to wonder, but eagerly sipped the liquid sunshine that was bringing me back to light and life. Dark red it was, in the glass, but in the mouth a cosy fire that glowed all the way down.

An old gammer with a kindly face tucked another warmed blanket round my shoulders and said she had a bed nicely warmed and ready for me. I roused at that—it was my last evening at Bag End, for my grandfather wanted to set out for Buckland in the morning! Though he was saying something about staying over a few more days until sure I’d taken no harm, I could only think about getting back to Bag End, not abandoning Frodo on his first night alone.

At last they let me have my way, perhaps thinking I’d rest better in a familiar bed. In any event, somehow I found myself clad in dry clothes and ready to set out when the healer arrived... finally! Why, I might have died in the time it took to fetch her. Worse, here I’d finally got warm and dry and she insisted I strip off that she might listen to my breathing! I told her I was breathing just fine without any help on her part, but she’d have none of it, and Frodo and Grandfather took her part against me.

Worst of all, a party was breaking out around me. Hobbits were laughing and raising mugs and glasses and teacups filled from bottles brought by the proprietor of the Ivy Bush to celebrate my survival or observe my passing; whichever way events turned they were prepared. I shuddered to think of the story being told down through the years... and thinking me still chilled, someone filled my glass once more, though not with that marvellous Old Winyards. Grandfather had toasted old Bilbo with the last of the bottle, voting him “a capital fellow” for saving my life with his foresighted gift.

At last I was allowed to clothe myself once more, and then they wrapped me in several layers of blankets, and though I insisted I was well recovered, Grandfather and Frodo took me between them  and half-carried me out to the yard, and they boosted me onto the back of a pony. I have no idea whose. In any event, I had to ride the ancient, sway-backed beast up the Hill with Grandfather, Frodo, Gaffer Gamgee, and Samwise surrounding us. I don’t know whom they intended to catch: the pony, if he collapsed, or myself, perhaps.

Samwise helped Frodo get me into the smial; for some reason I was stiff and found movement painful. Grandfather and the Gaffer stirred up the kitchen fire and brewed a pot of tea whilst Samwise built a fire on the guest hearth and ran back and forth to the kitchen filling hot water bottles. Frodo tucked me up; my, but I was sleepy.

He tousled my hair, much as if I were a much younger lad. ‘Sleep,’ he said. ‘You’re warm and safe, and we’ll have a chance to talk on the morrow. Old Rorimac says he’ll stay over a few days, just so he can get over the shock, and so that means you’ll have that much more time to clutter up Bag End.'

I smiled and closed my eyes and felt him rise from the bed. I heard him whisper that he’d keep watch over me, but that he thought I’d sleep well for the moment, tucked up with hot water bottles all round, and would everyone please stay and join him in a cup of tea?

He left the door ajar, and I relished the warm, cosy feeling, feeling myself start to drift... but the darkness when I closed my eyes hovered threatening, and though it wasn’t deathly chilling as the well had been, still, it was... dark.

Thankfully Frodo had left the lamp burning on the dressing table, or I might have crept from my bed like a small frightened child, in search of grown-ups and comfort. This would never do!

I thought, then, of a book. I’ll admit, I’d read myself to sleep on many an occasion in that spare room of Bilbo’s and he’d kept the bookshelves stocked with books he knew I loved: tales of great deeds, and maps, and accounts of natural wonders, and picture books of flowers and trees and herbs and bushes. If I read until I dropped off, then I’d have good thoughts to sleep on, and not be so bothered by that dreadful dark.

I crept from my bed, hoping to reach the bookshelf and back again without discovery (and associated scolding). When I reached the bookshelf I found a curious thing. My two favourite books had been shoved apart and a brown paper parcel placed between them. Intrigued, I carefully removed the parcel, finding my name inscribed on the front in Bilbo’s spidery hand: “To Merry, in memory of many a ramble in wood and field and word”.

I stopped then and there, turning the parcel over in my hands. Bilbo had left me one of his parting gifts! I hesitated to open it. So many of his final words had been jabs at faults, a last way of offering advice or suggestion for improvement. Of course, others had been charitable in nature. As I was in no need of charity, being son of Brandy Hall’s heir, I suspected a “jab” was in the offing.

I took a deep breath, determined to take good and not ill of this final thought of Bilbo’s. I must admit, my hands trembled slightly as I untied the ribbon that bound the parcel. I shivered then, feeling anew the chill I’d fought off earlier, and so I took myself off to the bed once more, slipping between the bedcovers and snuggling down into the hot-water-bottle-warmed nest.

I propped myself upon one elbow and slowly unfolded the paper cover. There lay a leather-bound journal, not as large nor as thick as the Red Book I’d glimpsed in Bilbo’s study, but more slim and elegant. I wondered what the pages contained. Slowly I opened the cover, to read the inscription on the flyleaf.

Merry, lad,
I found in you a kindred spirit
Always interested in this leaf or that blossom
A veritable fountain of words and wit.
’Twould be a shame if the pen should pass
  from the family,
And so I give you this book
  for your very own,
To record your finds, a fine life’s work.
And with each new treasure, I hope
  you’ll spare a fond thought for
    Your loving cousin Bilbo

There were drawings on the first few pages, delicate pen-and-ink sketches of the flowers and herbs growing in the garden outside my guest room window, carefully tinted and labelled. The rest of the pages were blank, but slipped in between were folded papers, each containing a pressed leaf or blossom, identified in Bilbo’s hand. Elven-bells of Rivendell, from the eastern bank of the stream near the Last Homely House, Dwarf-stars found growing on the southern slopes of the Lonely Mountain, and Common thistle-wort culled in Troll’s dell, amongst them.

For the first time since his disappearance in a blinding flash, I wept for my loss, hugging the book close. At last, wiping away my tears that they might not mar the fine leather cover, I laid the book down upon the pillow and pillowed my cheek on its cool, smooth surface.

 ‘Goodnight, Bilbo,’ I whispered. And I felt, somehow, as if his gentle old hands pulled up the coverlet as they had on so many other visits, and a feather kiss fell upon my cheek as I slowly slipped into sleep.