At last night fell.  The rooms blossomed with candlelight.  In the yellow room up stairs the Beautiful Wicked Witch paraded back and forth before the mirrors, loving her own reflection, smiling at herself, courtesying, frowning, looking back over her shoulder,—­lifting her hair to let it fall again in electric waves.  Eric stood by the window, thoroughly weary of his search and loneliness, and watched her.  The bird sat in the cage and watched her.  All the little bright eyes of animals watched her.  The candles burned steadily.

How Eric longed for Ivra now, and their own big friendly room.  He imagined Ivra in the room there all alone getting her supper over the fire, bathing in the fountain bath, opening the windows, and at last falling softly to sleep before the firelight faded.

Oh, if there were only a window open here!  How hot it was, and how over-sweetly scented!  The Beautiful Wicked Witch went on posing and preening before the mirrors, and seemed to have forgotten all about her new little prisoner.

So he pulled back the yellow satin curtain, and looked out.  It was clear, cold starlight.  He pressed his face against the window pane and stared down into the shadows beneath the fir.  And there, standing erect in the shadow, her face lifted like a pale little moon, stood Ivra.

She saw him, but did not wave.  She only nodded, as though she knew now what she had come to make sure of.  She stood still for a few minutes, until Eric almost thought she was frozen in the cold.  But at last she moved and disappeared under the fir.

Music tinkled through the house.  The Beautiful Wicked Witch poised on her toes, surprisedly looking into the reflection of her own eyes.

“Some one has come in, for that was the door,” she said.  “It opens inward with music.”

Eric’s heart stood still.  Had Ivra come into the Witch’s house, Ivra who was so afraid of the Witch?  He ran down the stairs and the Witch followed him.  Yes, Ivra stood there in the middle of the warm, flower-hung room, like a little cold star beam.

But she did not look at the quaint flowers in their golden vases.  And when the Witch ran to her and kissed her she did not even look at her.  She looked only at Eric, and her eyes said, “I have come to free you.”

“Oh, so you did want to try on the pretty frock after all,” cried the Witch, and drew her up the stairs.  Eric followed to the yellow room.  “No,” said Ivra.  But the Witch brought it out and tried to slip it over her head.  It was sheerest gossamer web, and shimmered like moonlight.  And the little rosebuds seemed to make it belong to Ivra.

Eric forgot all about being a prisoner, and forgot the little caged creatures around the wall.  He was delighted with the frock being pushed down on Ivra’s shoulders.  “How beautiful you’ll be!” he cried.  But Ivra wriggled away from it and stood clear.  Her rudely made brown frock and worn sandals looked odd in that satin room.  “I didn’t come to see the frock,” she said, shaking her head till her pigtails bobbed.  “I came to get Eric.”