Once of a still night at Twist Tickle (when I was grown to be eleven)
my uncle abandoned his bottle and came betimes to my room to make sure
that I was snug in my sleep. 'Twas fall weather without, the first
chill and frosty menace of winter abroad: clear, windless, with all
the stars that ever shone a-twinkle in the far velvet depths of the
sky beyond the low window of my room. I had drawn wide the curtains to
let the companionable lights come in: to stare, too, into the vast
pool of shadows, which was the sea, unquiet and sombre beneath the
serenity and twinkling splendor of the night. Thus I lay awake, high
on the pillows, tucked to my chin: but feigned a restful slumber when
I caught the sigh and downcast tread of his coming.
"Dannie," he whispered, "is you awake?"