Outside the rain had increased. He peered out into the lightning night. A truck horn blew ominously far down the road. The road? He slogged through the mud, instantly soaking as soon as he was out of shelter, not knowing or caring. Through the front yard, out to the road. He could see the lights of the truck coming from far away, two tiny points in the darkness. But no twins. He waited helplessly while the truck rushed past, its headlights cutting holes in the darkness--fearing those lights would outline something that he had not seen. But there was nothing. For another eternity he hunted the muddy fields, the small barn and outbuildings. The clutch of fear made him shout their names, though he knew they could not hear. And then, suddenly, all fear was gone--like a summer squall near the sea, with the sun close behind. It was as if their hands had reached out and touched him and brought the strange feeling again. "They are in the house," he said aloud and knew he was right. He took time to discard muddy shoes on the porch before he opened the door. And they were there--by the mother's bed, hands clasped over hers. He felt a tiny chill. Their eyes were watching the door as he opened it, their faces set to receive some stimuli--already set--as if they had known he was coming. Mary was breathing softly. On her face all trace of pain had disappeared and now there was the tiny smile that had been hers long ago. Her breathing was even, but light as forgotten conversation. Gently he tried to pry their resisting hands away from hers. The hands fought back with a terrible strength beyond normality. By sheer greater force he tore one of the twins away. It was like releasing a bomb. Sudden pain stabbed through his body. The twin struggled in his arms, the small hands reaching blindly out for the thing they had lost. And Mary's eyes opened and all of the uncontrolled pain came, back into those eyes. Her body writhed on the bed, tearing the coverings away. The twin squirmed away from his slackening hold and once again caught at the hands of the mother. All struggle ceased. Mary's eyes shut again, the pain lines smoothed themselves, the tiny smile flowered. He reached out and touched the small hands on each side of the mother and the feeling for which there were no words came through more strongly than ever before. Tiny voices tried to whisper within the corners of his mind, partially blotted, sometimes heard. The _real_ things, the things of hate and fear and despair retreated beyond the bugle call that sounded somewhere. "She will die," the voice said; one voice for two. "This part of her will die." And then _her_ voice came--as it had been once before when all of the world was young. "You must not be afraid, John. I have known for a long time--for they were a part of me. And you could not know for your mind was hiding and alone. I have seen ..."