"Nice little boy," whispered Helen. "I say, what's your name? Mine's Helen."
"Tom."
That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but they never told their names in return.
"Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we've another called Tibby."
"Mine are lop-eared," replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit.
"You're a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.—Isn't he charming?"
"Undoubtedly," said Margaret. "He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know."
"Because I probably agree with you."
"It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live."
"I do agree," said Helen, as she sipped the milk. "But you said that the house was dead not half an hour ago."
"Meaning that I was dead. I felt it."
"Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, I can't get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I've a startling idea."
"What is it?"
"Drink some milk to steady you."
Margaret obeyed.
"No, I won't tell you yet," said Helen, "because you may laugh or be angry. Let's go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing."
They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the spring. Curtains blew, picture-frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery
