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. So for a moment we remained,
while I stared about me and saw that the drawn curtains were unstirred
and the window tight. “Why, the candle’s out!” I then cried.
“It was I who blew it, dear!” said Miles.