ed, so silent and
white were the jug and basin and soap-dish, so cold and chill were they.
There was nothing to be done but to bury his head beneath the clothes
and, trembling, try to believe in the reality of guardian angels. He
would shut his eyes very tightly until the wheels of coloured lights
thus evoked would circle and revolve, changing their colours in some
mysterious way. These dissolving spots were a great consolation and
passed the time for a little while, until the dread of fire began to
come. He would fling back the clothes in a paroxysm and, heedless of any
other danger, sit up with staring eyes and listening ears and keen
nostrils, dreading and imagining and doubting. Surely he could hear a
crackle; he could smell smoke. The house was on fire; yet not for
anything could he have got out of bed to reassure himself. What might
not be underneath, a burglar, a dead body, a murderer, a skeleton, a mad
dog?

Underneath the clothes he would plunge, and then he would be sure that
someone was coming into the room to smother him. He held his breath,
waiting; with an effort he flung back the clothes again. There was
nothing but the ghastly stillness and the solemn gaslight and the
viewless blinds and the expectant door ajar. The bedposts would now take
on a sort of humanity. They would look at him and wink and shiver. The
wall-paper, normally a pattern of rosebuds and roses, began to move, to
swim with unnatural life. The cistern upstairs began to clank; the bath
began to drip. It must be blood--Nanny had been murdered. The blood was
dripping slowly. Michael choked with horror. Somebody was tapping at the
window-pane, yes, somebody was tapping. It was horrible this endless
tapping. Cats must be coming in. The wardrobe creaked and rapped and
groaned. Some of his clothes slid off the chair on to the floor with a
soft plump; Michael tried to shriek his dismay; but his tongue was dry.
Underneath him a knife was being pushed through the bed. A death-watch
was ticking in the fastness of the wall at his head. A rat was gnawing
his way into the room. Black-beetles were coming up the stairs.

Then along the edge of the Venetian blinds appeared a blue streak. It
widened. It became more luminous. It turned from blue to grey. It turned
from grey to dimmest silver. Hark! 'Cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep!' The
sparrows were beginning. Their chorus rose. Their noise was cool as
water to Michael's fever. An early cart rattled cheerfully