Suddenly Mavis clutched at her brother’s arm.
“There’s a light,” she said, “in the house.”
There certainly was, and the children experienced that terrible empty sensation only too well known to all of us—the feeling of the utterly-found-out.
They could not be sure which window it was, but it was a downstairs window, partly screened by ivy. A faint hope still buoyed up Francis of getting up to bed unnoticed by whoever it was that had the light; and he and his sister crept around to the window out of which they had crept; but such a very long time ago it seemed. The window was shut.
Francis suggested hiding in the mill and trying to creep in unobserved later on, but Mavis said:
“No. I’m too tired for anything. I’m too tired to live, I think. Let’s go and get it over, and then we can go to bed and sleep, and sleep, and sleep.”
So they went and peeped in at the kitchen window, and there was no one but Mrs. Pearce, and she had a fire lighted and was putting a big pot on it.
The children went to the back door and opened it.
“You’re early, for sure,” said Mrs. Pearce, not turning.
This seemed a bitter sarcasm. It was too much. Mavis answered it with a sob. And at that Mrs. Pearce turned very quickly.