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words fighting the wind and rain. “Do not be afraid!”
    From her hands and knees she looked up. I do not know if she could well see me, given her seemingly pathetic condition, her fear, the cold, the rain, the night, the storm. I must have seemed dark to her, perhaps frightening, doubtless silhouetted in the frame, the light of the lamp behind me. How did she see me? Could she not see that I was muchly concerned for her, that I was profoundly solicitous on her behalf?
    â€œYou will freeze!” I cried. “Come indoors!”
    She scrambled to a position half kneeling, half crouching, one knee in the grass, looking up, terrified, trying to cover herself, drawing her rain-soaked, bedraggled, golden hair about her with her small hands, pathetically, as if it were a rich but muchly rent, tattered cloak.
    Position, bitch.
    She then, for no reason I understood, numbly, seemingly uncomprehendingly, fearfully, went to her knees in the wet grass. The rain poured down. Lightning flashed. She had flung her hair behind her, perhaps that it afford no impediment to one’s vision, realizing perhaps that such was not permitted, in the least, and knelt back on her heels, with her back straight, and her head up. Her hands were on her thighs, palms down. Her knees were widely spread. How open, how vulnerable she seemed! Never had I had a woman kneel so before me, never had I known a woman could so kneel before a man. I dared not even conjecture what might be the meaning of such a posture, that of a woman before a man. She looked up at me, frightened, the rain streaming down her body.
    She looked well, so before me.
    She was not prompt, I thought, she will require training.
    Then I dismissed such an improper thought. Though, too, I thought, it would be pleasant to train her, to make her something worthy of a man’s needs.
    â€œIt’s terribly cold out there,” I called down to her. “The storm! The night! You’ll freeze! It’s miserable! Come in! Come in, out of the storm!”
    She rose to her feet, unsteadily, shaking her head. She stood in the cold, wet grass, in the moonlight, in the rain, partly bent over. Again she covered herself, as she could, ineptly, with her tiny hands, and hair.
    Has she not risen to her feet without permission, I thought. That should require discipline.
    â€œWho are you?” I called down.
    Do you not know, the thought came to me.
    â€œCome in!” I called to her again. “Come in, warm yourself by the stove, I’ll fetch blankets, I’ll make tea.”
    She turned, looking wildly about.
    I recalled, angrily, that, by now, the door to Hill House would doubtless be locked.
    â€œWait!” I called to her. “I’ll come down. I’ll bring a blanket!”
    At this point she turned about and fled, as though blinded with fear, irrationally across the grass and gravel, toward the wall, across the yard, opposite the window. Her small, wet body was then at the wall, pressing against it, scratching at it, sobbing. She looked pathetically upward, toward its top.
    â€œWait!” I called.
    She turned about, wildly, frightened, as though trapped, and looked up at me, in the window.
    â€œDon’t be afraid!” I called.
    Her back was against the dark, wet wall, pressed back against the wet stones.
    â€œWait!” I said.
    She looked wildly about, to the right and left, and then fled to her left, toward the gate. In an instant she had disappeared. I was angry, but could not leave her out on a night like this. I latched the shutters fiercely, brought down the sash, seized the blanket from my bed, and hurried downstairs, and, in a moment or two, was out in the yard, and through the gate. I did not know which way she had gone.
    I must find her, and help her, I thought.
    She will not escape, I thought.
    How different she now was from the prim maiden of my dreams. that well-bred, high-born, elegant maiden, so prudish, so proper, so fashionable,