"I've just begun a letter to your uncle," I said.
"Well, then, finish it!"
I waited a minute. "What happened before?"
He gazed up at me again. "Before what?"
"Before you came back. And before you went away."
For some time he was silent, but he continued to meet my eyes.
"What happened?"
It made me, the sound of the words, in which it seemed to me
that I caught for the very first time a small faint quaver
of consenting consciousness--it made me drop on my knees beside
the bed and seize once more the chance of possessing him.
"Dear little Miles, dear little Miles, if you KNEW how I
want to help you! It's only that, it's nothing but that,
and I'd rather die than give you a pain or do you a wrong--
I'd rather die than hurt a hair of you. Dear little Miles"--
oh, I brought it out now even if I SHOULD go too far--"I
just want you to help me to save you!" But I knew in a moment
after this that I had gone too far. The answer to my appeal
was instantaneous, but it came in the form of an extraordinary
blast and chill, a gust of frozen air, and a shake of the room
as great as if, in the wild wind, the casement had crashed in.
The boy gave a loud, high shriek, which, lost in the rest
of the shock of sound, might have seemed, indistinctly, though I
was so close to him, a note either of jubilation or of terror.
I jumped to my feet again and was conscious of darkness.
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