I was close to finishing the nightshirt when I was hit by a terrible feeling of homesickness. It was the first time since those early weeks of living in the castle that I had felt it so strongly. It may have been the thought of spring, or maybe just that I had been in the castle for so long, but whatever the reason, the feeling was overwhelming. I tried to ignore it and concentrated on the soft white cloth.

I was fashioning it into a long, generously sized shirt. I decided against buttons or ties, thinking that if I was correct, paws would not do well with them. I made it so it could be pulled on over the head. If I was wrong, and my night visitor was not a bear but a person, then a small brooch could be used for fastening at the neck. In fact, I found such a brooch in the music room. It was fashioned in the shape of a silver flauto, very similar to the one that held the position of honor in the box with the blue-velvet cloth.

On the night I finished the shirt, I laid it carefully on the far side of the bed and placed the brooch beside it. I was intensely curious about what my visitor would do. Would it alter at all its nightly routine? Would it put on the shirt? Finally speak to me? Or would it not even notice the white shirt in the complete blackness of the room?

I lay waiting, tense with anticipation. Then there came the barely perceptible sighing sound of the door opening and shutting. No light ever spilled into the room, for at this time of night the hallway was pitchblack as well. There was the usual silence as my visitor crossed the room. Typically then I would feel the give in the mattress, followed by the adjustment of the covers. But this time the silence lasted longer. I strained my ears, all my senses. What was he doing?...Was he...? And then, yes, I felt sure the nightshirt was being lifted off the bed. A sound of rustling fabric, as though it was being slipped over a head, arms pushing through the sleeves. There came a very faint clicking sound, of metal against metal, as of a brooch being fastened.

Soon there was the familiar give in the mattress, the covers pulled up, and then, nothing. I had not expected words, a conventional thank-you, so was not disappointed in the silence.

In the morning the nightshirt was neatly folded at the foot of the bed, the visitor's side, with the brooch attached at the neck. This pleased me very much. It was a sign the shirt had been worn and appreciated. And I had noticed no shivering at all during the night.

While. I was dressing I kept looking at the folded bundle at the foot of the bed. Finally I could contain myself no longer and crossed to it, unfolding and pressing the nightshirt to my face. I breathed in.

I'm not sure what I was seeking, possibly the smell of the white bear. There was a trace of that smell, but it could easily have been because of the bear fur I'd used in weaving the shirt. But there was another very faint smell that I could not identify, nor put words to—a good smell.

Then I folded the shirt up again and placed it on the bed.

Each night I laid the shirt out on the side of the bed and every morning it would be folded at the foot. And my visitor never again showed any signs of shivering.

Every seven days I washed the shirt, along with my own clothing. It was one chore that from the beginning I had insisted on doing myself. In those first weeks I had set up a room especially for washing. It was one of the plainer rooms in the castle and had a generous hearth fire for heating water and the stones I used for ironing. The white woman and man caught on right away and made sure the fire was always lit on washing day. The nightshirt never got dirty or smelled any different from the first time I had put it to my nose, but I wanted to keep it fresh.

One washing day I had just given a final rinse to the nightshirt and was holding it up over the hot water. With steam rolling off its surface, I was thinking how the whiteness of the fabric had a ghostly sort of glow. Then I heard a sound. It was that sighing sound I had heard before, when I was trying on the moon dress and saw the bear through the doorway. And there he was again, standing in the doorway watching me, his eyes avid, almost hungry. Startled, I dropped the nightshirt back into the bucket and hot water splashed up on me, I let out a little cry and the white bear took a few steps toward me. Unhurt, I brushed at the water on my clothing, but my eyes locked with those of the white bear. He gave a low growl, like he was in pain, then he swung his head around and padded quickly away, down the hall.

The homesickness that had begun while I was finishing the nightshirt grew worse. It was intensified, I believe, because I had nothing more I wanted to make on the loom. Or it may have been my homesickness that made me lose interest in weaving, sewing, and spinning. Sitting there at the loom suddenly felt dull and tiresome.

I thought constantly of my family, trying to picture them as spring came to the farm. I did not know for sure that they were still there; in fact, they probably were not, in that they had been on the verge of moving away, but I stubbornly kept imagining them there, in all the familiar places.

I thought about the land around our farm, of my favorite rambles, of the snowdrops that would be coming up beside the creek, and the carpet of spring heather that would blanket the hills to the west. I would sit on the red couch by the hour, gazing vacantly into the hearth fire, thinking of the way the wind had felt on my skin. And the sun hot on my hair.

When I wasn't in the red-couch room, I would sit beside the small window at the top of the castle. I could then clearly see that the lone tree branch had sprouted the beginnings of leaves. I tried jamming my hand through the tiny opening in a ridiculous attempt to reach the leaves, but the branch was much too far away and all I got were scraped knuckles. Some days it was too painful to see the blue of the sky and the green of the new leaves, and I would retreat to the red couch.

The white bear would find me there and I could tell he was uneasy. His eyes watched me with a sad, unsettled look and his skin twitched, as if he was reflecting the restlessness and unhappiness he saw in my face.

I no longer spoke to him or told him stories. I was angry. After all, he was the reason I was not out walking my own familiar trails; it was he who had brought me to this prison. When those feelings grew strong, I would stalk out of the room and restlessly roam the corridors and rooms of the castle. The white bear did not follow me.

My unhappiness began to affect my sleep. I tossed and turned, uncaring whether or not I disturbed my unseen companion. Still, despite my unhappy state I did not violate the unspoken rules about trying to touch or speak to the visitor. Something kept me, just barely, from straying over that line. I still laid out the nightshirt but only out of habit.

I ate little and could tell that I was getting thin and unhealthy, yet I did not care. I had no will for anything except either sitting and staring or incessantly roaming the castle. I had lost interest in my makeshift calendar and no longer knew the day or even the month. Gradually my little spurts of anger at the white bear became the only moments I felt much of anything at all, and after a while even my anger grew dull.

One day I was sitting on the red couch, staring at nothing, when the white bear came into the room. He did not lie in his usual spot but stood facing me and spoke. I had not heard his voice in a long time.

"You ... are ill?"

"No," I said apathetically.

"No food ... pale."

"I'm not hungry."

"Then unhappy..." he intoned mournfully. "...lonely?"