The light of the lamp was dull but welcoming, like the color brown, earthy and familiar. This manmade facsimile of the sun, of fire, this replacement for day which kept without complaint its watch over my dusty books—my silent friend whose gentle glow let the others chatter through the night—warmed my heart for his familiar presence.
So I sat, not reading tonight, just thinking. Waiting, I suppose, for him to say a word, but the stalwart sentinel met my silence with silence.
With him shining beside me, I dreamed, though I was half awake. They were pleasant dreams.
Tale Told 