e gave in; but she knew that if good
befell the children she could claim no credit; if evil, she would take
all the blame. There remained the comfortable assurance that she had
done her best, and then Miriam's face mocked her as it peeped furtively
round the bedroom door. Thus she was brought back to her starting place,
and finding the circle a giddy one, she determined to travel on it no
more, and with her old rigidity, she kept this resolve. It was, however,
less difficult than it would once have been, for her mind was weary and
glad of an excuse to take the easiest path. She lay in bed according to
Zebedee's bidding, hardly moving under the clothes, and listening to the
noises in the house. She was astonished by their number and
significance. All through the night, cooling coals ticked in the grate
or dropped on to the hearth; sometimes a mouse scratched or cheeped in
the walls, and on the landing there were movements for which Helen could
have accounted: Mr. Pinderwell, more conscious of his loss in the
darkness, and unaware that his children had taken form, was moving from
door to door and scraping his hands across the panels. Often the wind
howled dolorously round the house while rain slashed furiously at the
windows, and there were stealthy nights when snow wound a white muffler
against the noises of the world. The clock in the hall sent out clear
messages as to the passing of man's division of time, and at length
there came the dawn, aged and eternally young, certain of itself, with a
grey amusement for man's devices. Before that, Helen had opened her door
and gone in soft slippers to light the kitchen fire, and presently
Rupert was heard to whistle as he dressed. Meanwhile, as though it
looked for something, the light spread itself in Mildred Caniper's room
and she attuned her ears for the different noises of the day. There was
Miriam's laughter, more frequent than it had been before her stepmother
was tied to bed, and provocative of a wry smile from the invalid; there
was her farewell shout to Rupert when he took the road, her husky
singing as she worked about the house. Occasionally Mildred heard the
stormy sound of Mrs. Samson's breathing as she polished the landing
floor, or her voice raised in an anecdote too good to keep. Brooms
knocked against the woodwork or swished on the bare floors, and still
the clock, hardly noticed now, let out its warning that human life is
short, or as it might be, over long. Late