“You’re the George that was once. That’s why he hates you so.--You’re George the Fifth, I suppose,” she said, forgetting he wouldn’t understand. “I _won’t_ be like George!” he exclaimed. “But I shan’t go unless you’ll come with me. It wouldn’t be any fun unless you were there. Help us to get away, and we’ll never come again.” She did not tell him that she could never go back; that he must go alone; that they would always be lonely. “Are you _sure_?” he asked pitiably. “Have I got to be like _that_? Like George, I mean?” “Hurry, hurry,” was all she could say. He was running toward the house. * * * * * She tried to follow, but some sluggish seizure was about her limbs. The house, shadowy in deepening mist, loomed over her. She seemed to hear its passages patter with racing feet. There was a face at the pantry window. Perhaps there was a face at every window. There always is. She dared not look. There _were_ racing feet. The three children burst onto the porch above her. “Time for breakfast!” they called. “And then we’ll be ready for the Picnic!” Now she knew. The whole dumb face of the house had been warning her; George’s premonition last night was the same. She tried wildly to wave them back, but her voice was sealed. Frolicking with anticipation, Janet and Sylvia and Rose ran to the railing and leaned over to shout to her. “See if there are any cobwebs! If there are, it’s not going to rain.” Time swayed over her like an impending tree, tremulous, almost cut through. It seemed so gingerly poised that perhaps the mere fury of her will could hold it stable for a moment. Where was Martin? Oh, if he found the mouse in time he would get back before this happened and perhaps his memory would be wiped clean. She saw George appear at the door of the porch with tools in his hands, and his face turn ghastly. “We’re going to have ginger ale at the Picnic,” Sylvia was calling. She tried to hold Time still with her mind. She was frantically motioning the children back, crying out and wondering whether her voice made any sound. The balustrade was going, she saw the old splintery wood cracking, swaying, sagging. There was a snapping crash of breaking posts. The children’s faces, flushed with gaiety, their mouths open, suddenly changed. They leaned forward and still farther forward, holding out their arms to her as though for an embrace. They were beginning to fall. After so many little tears and troubles, how could they know that this was more than one last strange tenderness. And as the railing shattered and they fell, she saw that Martin was at the door of the porch. He had found it. XXII The candles were still smoking on the cake, the children all trooping toward the hall. “Wait, wait!” he cried. “Come back a minute!”