This sudden revival of hope gave her the necessary stimulus,
and she sprang off the sofa where she lay. She looked out of the window
and saw the dull glow on the horizon. But before she could take a step
forward it was obscured again. A tiny sparkle of light came from the
hearth which did no more than illuminate the tiles of the fireplace, and
snow falling heavily tapped at the window panes. There was neither light
nor sound except these. But the courage that had come to her, giving her the power of movement,
had not quite deserted her, and she began feeling her way down the
gallery. And then she found that she was lost. She stumbled against a
chair, and, recovering herself, stumbled against another. Then a table
barred her way, and, turning swiftly aside, she found herself up against
the back of a sofa. Once more she turned and saw the dim gleam of the
firelight on the side opposite to that on which she expected it. In her
blind gropings she must have reversed her direction. But which way was
she to go now? She seemed blocked in by furniture. And all the time
insistent and imminent was the fact that the two innocent terrible
ghosts were about to appear to her. Then she began to pray, “Lighten our darkness, O Lord,” she said to
herself. But she could not remember how the prayer continued, and she
had sore need of it. There was something about the perils of the night. All this time she felt about her with groping, fluttering hands. The
fire-glimmer which should have been on her left was on her right again;
therefore she must turn herself round again. “Lighten our darkness,” she
whispered, and then aloud she repeated, “Lighten our darkness.”

She stumbled up against a screen, and could not remember the existence
of any such screen. Hastily she felt beside it with blind hands, and
touched something soft and velvety. Was it the sofa on which she had
lain? If so, where was the head of it. It had a head and a back and
feet--it was like a person, all covered with grey lichen. Then she lost
her head completely. All that remained to her was to pray; she was lost,
lost in this awful place, where no one came in the dark except the
babies that cried. And she heard her voice rising from whisper to
speech, and speech to scream. She shrieked out the holy words, she
yelled them as if blaspheming as she groped among tables and chairs and
the pleasant things of ordinary life which had become so terrible. *       *       *       *       *

Then came a sudden and an awful answer to her screamed prayer. Once more
a pocket of inflammable gas in the peat on the hearth was reached by the
smouldering embers, and the room started into light. She saw the evil
eyes of handsome Dick, she saw the little ghostly snow-flakes falling
thickly outside. And she saw where she was, just opposite the door
through which the terrible twins made their entrance. Then the flame
went out again, and left her in blackness once more. But she had gained
something, for she had her geography now. The centre of the room was
bare of furniture, and one swift dart would take her to the door of the
landing above the main staircase and into safety. In that gleam she had
been able to see the handle of the door, bright-brassed, luminous like a
star. She would go straight for it; it was but a matter of a few seconds
now. She took a long breath, partly of relief, partly to satisfy the demands
of her galloping heart. But the breath was only half-taken when she was
stricken once more into the immobility of nightmare. There came a little whisper, it was no more than that, from the door
opposite which she stood, and through which the twin-babies entered. It
was not quite dark outside it, for she could see that the door was
opening. And there stood in the opening two little white figures, side
by side. They came towards her slowly, shufflingly. She could not see
face or form at all distinctly, but the two little white figures were
advancing. She knew them to be the ghosts of terror, innocent of the
awful doom they were bound to bring, even as she was innocent. With the
inconceivable rapidity of thought, she made up her mind what to do. She
had not hurt them or laughed at them, and they, they were but babies
when the wicked and bloody deed had sent them to their burning death. Surely the spirits of these children would not be inaccessible to the
cry of one who was of the same blood as they, who had committed no fault
that merited the doom they brought. If she entreated them they might
have mercy, they might forebear to bring the curse on her, they might
allow her to pass out of the place without blight, without the sentence
of death, or the shadow of things worse than death upon her. It was but for the space of a moment that she hesitated, then she sank
down on to her knees, and stretched out her hands towards them. “Oh, my dears,” she said, “I only fell asleep. I have done no more wrong
than that----”

She paused a moment, and her tender girl’s heart thought no more of
herself, but only of them, those little innocent spirits on whom so
awful a doom was laid, that they should bring death where other children
bring laughter, and doom for delight. But all those who had seen them
before had dreaded and feared them, or had mocked at them. Then, as the enlightenment of pity dawned on her, her fear fell from her
like the wrinkled sheath that holds the sweet folded buds of Spring. “Dears, I am so sorry for you,” she said. “It is not your fault that you
must bring me what you must bring, but I am not afraid any longer. I am
only sorry for you. God bless you, you poor darlings.”

She raised her head and looked at them. Though it was so dark, she could
now see their faces, though all was dim and wavering, like the light of
pale flames shaken by a draught. But the faces were not miserable or
fierce--they smiled at her with shy little baby smiles. And as she
looked they grew faint, fading slowly away like wreaths of vapour in
frosty air. *       *       *       *       *

Madge did not at once move when they had vanished, for instead of fear
there was wrapped round her a wonderful sense of peace, so happy and
serene that she would not willingly stir, and so perhaps disturb it. But
before long she got up, and feeling her way, but without any sense of
nightmare pressing her on, or frenzy of fear to spur her, she went out
of the long gallery, to find Blanche just coming upstairs whistling and
swinging her skates. “How’s the leg, dear,” she asked, “You’re not limping any more.”

Till that moment Madge had not thought of it. “I think it must be all right,” she said, “I had forgotten it anyhow. Blanche, dear, you won’t be frightened for me, will you, but--but I have
seen the twins.”

For a moment Blanche’s face whitened with terror. “What?” she said in a whisper. “Yes, I saw them just now. But they were kind, they smiled at me, and I
was so sorry for them.