I haven't a notion how long the sleep lasted. It might have been hours, or days, or weeks, if I'm to tell from my own feelings. When I woke up, it was night. I was in my bed still, and a candle was burning. Somebody was leaning back in a chair, sound asleep. I sat up slowly, and looked at her, and I made out gradually that it was Mrs. Hammond. I didn't want Mrs. Hammond, and I didn't want her to speak to me. I had woke up better, and quite clear in mind. Only I had a feeling that I mustn't let myself think yet about what was come to us. Something had happened—something dreadful—and down in my heart I knew what it was. But I tried to think I didn't know. I wanted to see and speak to mother. And if I began to think about the other, I shouldn't be able. I got out of bed, stepping softly, and put on my dressing-gown. It wasn't easy, I was that weak and shaken; but still I did it. And I took the candle in my hand, swaying as I walked, for I could scarce keep myself upright. Passing the glass, I had a glimpse of such a white changed face. It didn't look like Kitty Phrynne. But I went straight to the door, and out upon the landing. There wasn't a sound nor a stir outside, except that the floor creaked beneath me. I waited a moment, and listened. Father and mother's room was opposite, and the door stood ajar. I had a sort of wonder—were they both sleeping there quietly? Well, they wouldn't hear me, if I peeped in. I thought I would: just to make sure all was right. Mother would tell me I was silly, but that wouldn't matter. I said all this to myself, in my thoughts, knowing it wasn't true, yet somehow half believing it. When I pushed open the door of the room, I found it dark within. So I went softly on towards the bed, carrying my candle, and I found it hadn't been slept in. I stayed a moment, looking, and feeling, oh so strange! I didn't know what to let myself think. Then I saw I wasn't alone. Somebody was sitting in a chair near the fireplace; sitting still, her hands folded together. I went a step or two nearer, and stopped again. For it was mother; and I was frightened to see mother like that, all alone in the dark, not stirring nor speaking. She hadn't undressed; and her face was pale, with a sort of stiffened look. But she wasn't unconscious; for her eyes were following me about, staring hard in a cold dull way. I had never seen her so before. "Mother!" I said, and I went nearer. But she didn't answer. I said again "Mother!" There wasn't a movement, only her eyes were on me still. Then I came almost close. I wanted to take her hand. I did so crave a kiss, and a word of comfort. But all of a sudden she drew her chair back. "Keep off!" says she, in a rough voice, quite hoarse, not like mother's. I began to shake all over, and turned queer again. "Mother, don't you know me?" says I. "It's your little Kitty. Don't you know me?" "Keep off!" says she, just in the same way.