the sequestered home and appealed to the unavowed curiosity
of my youth. I remember that the book I had in my hand
was Fielding's Amelia; also that I was wholly awake.
I recall further both a general conviction that it was horribly
late and a particular objection to looking at my watch.
I figure, finally, that the white curtain draping,
in the fashion of those days, the head of Flora's
little bed, shrouded, as I had assured myself long before,
the perfection of childish rest. I recollect in short that,
though I was deeply interested in my author, I found myself,
at the turn of a page and with his spell all scattered,
looking straight up from him and hard at the door of my room.
There was a moment during which I listened, reminded of
the faint sense I had had, the first night, of there being
something undefinably astir in the house, and noted the soft
breath of the open casement just move the half-drawn blind.
Then, with all the marks of a deliberation that must have
seemed magnificent had there been anyone to admire it,
I laid down my book, rose to my feet, and, taking a candle,
went straight out of the room and, from the passage,
on which my light made little impression, noiselessly closed
and locked the door.

I can say now neither what determined nor what guided me, but I went
straight along the lobby, holding my candle high, till I came within sight
of the tall window that presided over the great turn of the staircase.
At this point I precipitately found myself aware of three things.
They were practically simultaneous, yet they had flashes of succession.
My candle, under a bold flourish, went out, and I perceived, by the uncovered
window, that the yielding dusk of earliest morning rendered it unnecessary.