When I return to Sue she is at the window, wringing her hands. Midnight has sounded. She supposed me lost. But she is too relieved to scold me. ''Here''s your cloak,'' she says. ''Fasten it up now, quick. Take your bag.—Not that one, that one''s too heavy for you. Now, we must go.'' She thinks me nervous. She puts her finger to my mouth. She says, ''Be steady'' Then she takes my hand and leads me through the house.
Soft as a thief, she goes. She tells me where I may walk. She does not know that I have recently stood, light as a shadow, and watched my uncle sleep. But then, we go by the servants'' way, and the naked passages and stairs are strange to me, all this part of the house is strange to me. She keeps her hand in mine until we reach the basement door. Then she sets down her bag, so she may smear the key and the bolts with grease, to make them turn. She catches my eye and winks, like a boy. My heart aches in my breast.→→
Then the door is opened and she takes me into the night; and the park is changed, the house seems queer—for of course, I have never
before seen it at such an hour as this, I have only stood at my window and gazed out. If I stood there now, would I see myself running, Sue tugging my hand? Would I seem so bleached of depth and colour, like the lawn, the trees, the stones