"Good boy," encouraged David from the window. Dickie stirred in his sleep, rolled over and buried his face in the blanket. Mac thrust his cold nose into the boy's neck and whined softly. "Dickie," David called urgently, shining the torch on him. "Wake up, Dickie; it's us!"

And then Mary sat up in the light, blinked and said loudly, "Hello!"

"Quiet, Mary!" David hissed in anguish. "Be quiet. Come over and open the window."

Mary pushed her hand through her curls, clutched Macbeth and slipped off the bed.

"Oh! David," she said, "it's you. Oh! David, is Mummy cross? Is it time to get up?"

"Don't be silly," her brother snapped. "Open the window."

This seemed to wake Mary up, and she promptly did as she was told. In a second David had pulled himself over the sill and could feel his sister hugging him hard round the legs. Perhaps it was because it was dark that he did a very unusual thing he slipped an arm round her shoulder and dropped a clumsy kiss on the top of her head.

"We've been brave, David," she was whispering. "True, we have."

Dickie was sitting up in bed now.

"I'm very frightened," he was saying to himself. "No! I'm not really, but who is it?"

"Don't be an ass, Dickie," said David, grinning in the dark. "It's me. We've come to take you home."

There was a thud as he slid off the bed.

"Mr. Ingles is outside, Mary. He'll hold you as I let you out of the window. Will you hold on to my wrists tight as I lower you? Can you manage?"

"Yes, David," she said quietly. "Just what you say."

He leaned from the window and flashed the torch down.

"Put that out!" said Mr. Ingles urgently from just below him. "Here I am. Tom found a big box in the yard and I'm standing on it. Now! The first one quickly."

Almost before he had finished speaking Mary slid over the sill into Mr. Ingles' strong arms, and was lowered easily to Tom, who lifted her to the ground. Then Dickie, protesting all the time, "I can manage. Jus' let me alone, David. I done bigger things than this yesterday - or today, whenever it was..."

Then David passed Macbeth down before Mr. Ingles gave him a hand for the last time. In the yard they stood still for a minute before creeping in single file to the corner of the house. They were just about to cross the grass to the gate when Mr. Ingles put out his arm and pressed them back against the wall.

"Quiet," he said under his breath. "Don't move."

He had heard the front door open, and now came the clear and unmistakable voice of Mrs. Thurston.

"The moon will soon be up," she said. "The wind has dropped and the mist has gone..."