A WITCH AT THE WINDOW

When the children woke the next morning, there was no Helma. Her bed had not been slept in. They had been too sleepy the night before to wonder at her absence, but now they could hardly believe their eyes. The room was strange and lonely without her. The fire had died in the night. They sat up in their beds and talked about it.

“She always comes back before bedtime,” said Ivra. “She has never stayed away before.”

Eric said, “Perhaps that is why the Tree Mother brought you in and undressed you perhaps she knew our mother had not come back. She looked wise, as though she knew everything.”

“She does know everything, at least everything in the forest. But did she bring me in, right here in her arms, Eric!”

“And undressed you while you were sound asleep.”

Ivra laughed with delight, and clasped her hands. “Truly, truly? The dear Tree Mother undressed me? Are you sure? Did she kiss me good-night? ” But suddenly she grew solemn. “Yes, she knew that mother was not here. She only takes care of those who have no one else. Well, we will have to wait for mother, that is all. She will surely come this morning.”

But she did not come that morning, nor that day, nor for many days. You shall hear it all.

The children laid the fire, together, shivering but hopeful. Ivra got the breakfast, teaching Eric, so that next time he could help. They chattered and played a good deal, and really had quite a merry time over it. It was only at first that Ivra was solemn over Helma’s disappearance. Soon her good sense told her that Helma loved them both, and nothing could keep her long from her children.

After breakfast they washed and put away the dishes. Then they tidied the room. They hurried over it a little, perhaps, for it was a bright winter day, and all the forest was waiting to be played in. Before they ran out, they put a log on the fire that it took both of them to lift. If Helma should come back while they were away, she must find a warm house. Ivra skipped back after they were outside to set out a bowl and spoon for her, and stand the cream jug beside them.

Then away they fled, running and jumping in the frosty morning air. Ivra taught Eric some games that could be played by two alone. They were running games, climbing games, hiding games, jumping games. Ivra was swift and strong and unafraid. Her cheeks reddened like apples in the cold. She was a fine playfellow.

Not until they were hungry did they think of home. Then they ran, hand in hand at last, jumping the garden hedge like deer, their hearts beating with the expectation of running straight into Helma’s arms. But no Helma was there. Nora had come with the milk, left it, eaten the rest of the porridge, and gone away again without waiting for a word with any one. The children wished she had stayed. They needed some one to talk with about their mother. Of course they knew she would come back, all in her good time. Ivra made Eric understand that. But the room seemed even emptier without her than it had in the morning. They cheered each other as best they could, drank a lot of the fresh milk and ate some nuts. They wanted to get away into the forest again and forget the empty house, so they did not try to cook anything.

They played hard all the afternoon. Towards twilight it grew warmer and began to snow, great wet flakes. They ran home, leaping the hedge again. The house was still empty. Helma was not there.

They stirred up the fire, and sat down on the floor in front of it to talk over what they should do. Then it happened, the strange, the beautiful, the frightful thing! Eric saw a face at the window. It was so perfectly beautiful, that face, that he wanted to shut his eyes against it. It almost hurt. It was the face of a young woman, very pale, but when her eyes met Eric’s they filled with dancing laughter. Her hair under her peaked, white hood glistened blue-black like a river in the snow. She lifted a small white hand and tapped on the window pane, nodding to him merrily.

Ivra turned at the sound of the little fingers on the glass. When she saw the face, she started to her feet with a frightened cry, and rushing to the door, drew the bolt.

“She can’t get in. She can’t get in, Eric. Don’t be afraid. We are safe.” But the poor little girl did not believe her own words. She was trembling.

“Why, I’m not afraid,” said Eric, running to the window. The merry eyes drew him. Now her mouth danced into smiles with her eyes. She made pretty signs to him to open the window and let her in.

But Ivra pulled him back. “Don’t you know? It’s the Beautiful Wicked Witch!” she whispered.

But Eric was impatient. “How can she be wicked when she’s so beautiful!” he exclaimed. He was so little used to beautiful people in his life that now he was fascinated and delighted.

The Beautiful Wicked Witch looked at Ivra then, and Ivra saw how her eyes were dancing, great black eyes full of splendor and fun. She caught her breath. She laughed back at the Beautiful Wicked Witch. She could not help herself. But her hands flew to her mouth to stop the laugh.

“Shut your eyes, Eric. That must be best, not to look at her at all. That is what mother did when she came before. She bolted the door and then we sat down in front of the fire and never looked at the window once, while she told me a long, lovely World Story about Psyche and her little playmate Eros. Then when we had forgotten all about the Beautiful Wicked Witch, we looked at the window by accident and she was gone. Come, I’ll tell you a World Story now, the same one.”

But Eric hardly heard what she was saying. He moved nearer and nearer to the window. Ivra followed him, charmed by the laughing face there too. Then together they unbolted the windowpane and opened it outward. The Beautiful Wicked Witch stepped in.

“How silly to be afraid of me, children,” she laughed. “I have only come to play with you.”

“Oh goody!” cried both of the children together. For now that she was in the room all their fear and wonder had vanished.

It was dusk, and so they lighted all the candles and poked the fire, before they turned to entertain their guest. But the candles did not burn very well, very faintly and flickeringly, and the fire fell lower and lower, instead of growing higher and higher as they nursed it.

“Don’t mind about that,” laughed the Beautiful Wicked Witch. “There’s enough light from the window for us to play together in. We won’t bother with the stubborn old fire and the silly little copy-cat candles. Come, what shall we play?”

But the children had been playing hard all day, and their bodies were tired. “Oh, tell us a story instead of playing,” begged Ivra. “This is the time when mother tells her very best stories.”

“Well, I am not mother,” said the Beautiful Wicked Witch; “but I will tell you the best stories I can. Come sit near the window where the light is stronger. That fire will never burn while I am here. I am brighter than it, and the old thing is jealous.”

The children laughed at her joke. But it was true, she was very bright. Her eyes seemed to light the room, or perhaps it was her gown, like an opal fire, blue and pink and purple, changing and glowing, and made of the softest silk.

Ivra nestled close to her knee where she could stroke the gleaming silk. Eric sprawled on the floor at her feet, his face upturned to hers.

Then she told them a story. It was not like any of Helma’s World Stories, but the children liked it. It was all about a gorgeous bird she had at home in her tree-house. She told how she had heard it singing one morning in early spring, high up in the branches of her tree, and how she had watched it day after day flying back and forth in the forest, its yellow breast flashing among the green leaves. It had a long golden bill, and its tail was black as jet; and its wings were the softest gray in the world with a feather of jet in either one. Its song was the clearest, the highest, the purest of all the bird songs in the forest. It was a wonderful bird, and she wanted it for her own.

Then she told the children how she had set traps for it, and how it had escaped every time. But at last she had made a dear little cage, all woven of spring flowers and leaves, and put food in it. Still the bird escaped, pulling the food out with its long bill and never getting inside the door. And finally she told them how she did capture that wild, shy bird by learning its song and singing it sitting in her tree-house with the window open, until the bird heard and came flying in wonder to find what other bird was calling it. Then she had closed the window and the bird was hers. It hung now in the pretty cage in her prettiest room, and sometimes sang in the middle of the night.

Eric liked the story, and all the better because it was a true story. And the Beautiful Wicked Witch said he could see the bird himself if he would come to her house. He could stroke its bright breast, and it would sing perhaps. Then there were other things caged in her house, cunning little animals, and some big ones, worth any boy’s seeing.

But Ivra answered for Eric, shaking her head hard. “No, no. Mother doesn’t want us to visit you.”

But Eric said, “May I open the cage door and the window and see the bird flash away? I should like that.”

“No. Well, perhaps,” said the Beautiful Wicked Witch. “Will you come then?”

“I can’t, I suppose, if Mother Helma doesn’t want me to. Are you sure she doesn’t, Ivra?”

Ivra was sure.

The Beautiful Wicked Witch laughed then. “Of course, if you tell her she won’t let you come. But if you came without telling, how could she mind?”

“That sounds true, but someway it can’t be,” said Ivra. And that seemed to end it.

But after a little the Beautiful Wicked Witch began another story. This one was about a frock she had made, a wonderful thing all of cobwebs and violet petals, with tiniest rosebuds around the neck. If Ivra were to slip that frock over her head, and unbraid her funny little pigtails, she would look as pretty as any fairy in the world.

Ivra was not too young to want to be pretty. If she would only go to the Beautiful Wicked Witch’s house, she could try on that dress, and wear it for one whole day if she liked. Ivra clasped her hands. But then she thought, and asked a question. “Could I play in it, and run and climb? Would I be as free as in this little old brown smock?”

The Beautiful Wicked Witch raised her hands in horror. “My cobweb frock! Why, it would be ruined! It would be in shreds! How can you even think of treating it so!”

So Ivra shook her head until her funny little pigtails flopped from side to side. “I don’t want to wear it then for even a minute. What fun would there be?”

“Well, think about it anyway,” said the Beautiful Wicked Witch, and rose to go away. “It’s the fir, you know, beyond the white birch.”

“Thank you for the stories,” said the children.

“Good-by,” said the Beautiful Wicked Witch. “Perhaps Eric will remember and come. It’s a gorgeous bird, and I haven’t said he couldn’t free it.”

Then she slipped out into the snow flakes, turning to give them one dancing look over her shoulder before the door swung to.

Up flamed the candles, clear high flames when she was gone, and the fire crackled again, and took on new life, reaching higher and higher.

They got their supper together rather silently. But just before going to sleep Ivra roused herself to say, “Let’s promise each other we won’t go to the Beautiful Wicked Witch’s fir until mother comes home, and we can tell her how jolly the Witch is, and what good stories she told us.”

“I don’t want to go anyway,” answered Eric, “unless I can free the bird.” But you see, he had not promised.

After a while, “Did you notice how pale her face was when she wasn’t laughing?” asked Eric.

“Yes, and not so beautiful then. Mother may come in the night, and we never know it till morning!”

Soon they were asleep, a tired, but happy little girl and boy.

I think the Tree Mother sank down in her air-boat to look in at them and open the door wide, which they had forgotten, so they would have fresh air all night; but it was dark, and the room was shadowy, so perhaps it was only the wind.