midnight wanderings that he seemed to get nearer the fundamental
root of things. It was to the night he turned for consolation in
times of need. It was then that he exorcised the demon of unrest
that entered into him periodically. All his life the charm of
the night had called to him and all his life he had responded
obediently. As a tiny boy one of his earliest recollections was of
slipping out of bed and, evading nurses and servants, stealing out
into the park at Craven Towers to seek the healing of the night
for some childish heartache. He had crept down the long avenue and
climbing the iron fence had perched on the rail and watched the
deer feeding by the light of the moon until all the sorrow had
been chased away and his baby heart was singing with a kind of
delirious happiness that he did not understand and that gave way
in its turn to a natural childish enjoyment of an adventure that
was palpably forbidden. He had slid down from the fence and
retraced his steps up the avenue until he came to the path that
led to the rose garden and eventually to the terrace near the
house. He had trotted along on his little bare feet, shivering now
and then, but more from excitement than from cold, until he had
come to the long flight of stone steps that led to the terrace. He
had laboriously climbed them one foot at a time, his toes curling
at the contact with the chill stone, and at the top he had halted
suddenly, holding his breath. Close to him was a tall indistinct
figure wrapped in dark draperies. For a moment fear gripped him
and then an immense curiosity swamped every other feeling and he
moved forward cautiously. The tall figure had turned suddenly and
it was his mother's sad girlish face that looked down at him. She
had lifted him up into her arms, wrapping her warm cloak round his
slightly clad little body--she had asked no questions and she had
not scolded. She had seemed to understand, even though he gave no