What was settled between us, accordingly, that night, was that we thought we might bear things together; and I was not even sure that, in spite of her exemption, it was she who had the best of the burden. I knew at this hour, I think, as well as I knew later, what I was capable of meeting to shelter my pupils; but it took me some time to be wholly sure of what my honest ally was prepared for to keep terms with so compromising a contract. I was queer company enough—quite as queer as the company I received; but as I trace over what we went through I see how much common ground we must have found in the one idea that, by good fortune, _could_ steady us. It was the idea, the second movement, that led me straight out, as I may say, of the inner chamber of my dread. I could take the air in the court, at least, and there Mrs. Grose could join me. Perfectly can I recall now the particular way strength came to me before we separated for the night. We had gone over and over every feature of what I had seen. “He was looking for someone else, you say—someone who was not you?” “He was looking for little Miles.” A portentous clearness now possessed me. “_That’s_ whom he was looking for.” “But how do you know?” “I know, I know, I know!” My exaltation grew. “And _you_ know, my dear!” She didn’t deny this, but I required, I felt, not even so much telling as that. She resumed in a moment, at any rate: “What if _he_ should see him?” “Little Miles? That’s what he wants!” She looked immensely scared again. “The child?” “Heaven forbid! The man. He wants to appear to _them_.” That he might was an awful conception, and yet, somehow, I could keep it at bay; which, moreover, as we lingered there, was what I succeeded in practically proving. I had an absolute certainty that I should see again what I had already seen, but something within me said that by offering myself bravely as the sole subject of such experience, by accepting, by inviting, by surmounting it all, I should serve as an expiatory victim and guard the tranquility of my companions. The children, in especial, I should thus fence about and absolutely save. I recall one of the last things I said that night to Mrs. Grose. “It does strike me that my pupils have never mentioned—” She looked at me hard as I musingly pulled up. “His having been here and the time they were with him?” “The time they were with him, and his name, his presence, his history, in any way.” “Oh, the little lady doesn’t remember. She never heard or knew.” “The circumstances of his death?” I thought with some intensity. “Perhaps not. But Miles would remember—Miles would know.” “Ah, don’t try him!” broke from Mrs. Grose. I returned her the look she had given me. “Don’t be afraid.” I continued to think. “It _is_ rather odd.” “That he has never spoken of him?” “Never by the least allusion. And you tell me they were ‘great friends’?”