Madame Menin has forgotten something else.  She has forgotten to shut my window.  She has designs upon my life!

I have just shut the window.  The night is calm, its stars twinkling through a haze.  The year ends mournfully.

I remember at school once waking suddenly on such a night as this, to find the moonlight streaming into my eyes.  At such a moment it is always a little hard to collect one’s scattered senses, and take in the midnight world around, so unhomely, so absolutely still.  First I cast my eyes along the two rows of beds that stretched away down the dormitory—­two parallel lines in long perspective; my comrades huddled under their blankets in shapeless masses, gray or white according as they lay near or far from the windows; the smoky glimmer of the oil lamp half-way down the room; and at the end, in the deeper shadows, the enclosure of yellow curtains surrounding the usher’s bed.

Not a sound about me; all was still.  But without, my ear, excited and almost feverishly awake, caught the sound of a strange call, very sweet, again and again repeated—­fugitive notes breathing appeal, tender and troubled.  Now they grew quite distant, and I heard no more than a phantom of sound; now they came near, passed over my head, and faded again into the distance.  The moon’s clear rays invited me to clear up the mystery.  I sprang from my bed, and ran in my nightshirt to open the window.  It was about eleven o’clock.  Together the keen night-air and the moonlight wrapped me round, thrilling me with delight.  The large courtyard lay deserted with its leafless poplars and spiked railings.  Here and there a grain of sand sparkled.  I raised my eyes, and from one constellation to another I sought the deep blue of heaven in vain; not a shadow upon it, not one dark wing outlined.  Yet all the while the same sad and gentle cry wandered and was lost in air, the chant of an invisible soul which seemed in want of me, and had perhaps awakened me.

The thought came upon me that it was the soul of my mother calling to me—­my mother, whose voice was soft and very musical.

“I am caring for thee,” said the voice.  “I am caring for thee; I can see thee,” it said, “I can see thee.  I love thee!  I love thee!”

“Reveal thyself!” I called back.  “Oh, mother, reveal thyself!” And I strove feverishly to catch sight of her, following the voice as it swept around in circles; and seeing nothing, I burst into tears.

Suddenly I was seized roughly by the ear.

“What are you doing here, you young rascal?  Are you mad?  The wind is blowing right on to my bed.  Five hundred lines!”

The usher, in nightdress and slippers, was rolling his angry eyes on me.

“Yes, sir; certainly, sir!  But don’t you hear her?”

“Who is it?”

“My mother.”

He looked to see whether I were awake; cocked his head to one side and listened; then shut the window angrily and went off shrugging his shoulders.