aches. He sat on the veranda
steps as he ate them, thinking idly of Sam's story of the old place and
getting it oddly mixed with what he had heard of Harry Sears's ghost
story. David was not superstitious. He did not believe that he could be
afraid of ghosts. He had other live troubles to worry him, which seemed
far worse. Still, he hoped that if ghosts did walk at midnight about
this forlorn old spot that they would choose any other night than this.

It was a soft, warm summer evening with a waning moon. David rolled his
coat up under his head for a pillow and lay down in one corner of the
porch.

He did not go to sleep at once; he was too tired and his bed was too
hard. How long he slept he did not know. He was awakened by a sound so
indescribably soft and vague that it might have been only a breath of
wind stirring. But David felt his hands grow icy cold and his breath
come in gasps. He was conscious of something uncanny near him. Something
warm touched him. He could have screamed with terror. But it was only a
thin, black cat, the color of the night shadows.

The boy sat up. He was wide awake. He was not dreaming. Stealing up the
path to the house was a wraith; tall, thin, emaciated, with hair
absolutely white and thin, and skeleton-like hands; it was the semblance
of an old man. He was not human; he made no noise, he did not seem to
walk, he floated along. There was something dreadfully sad in the
ghost's appearance. Yet he was not alone. He led some one by the hand, a
young girl, who was more ghost-like than he was. Her hair was floating
out from her tiny, gnome-like face. She was thinner and more pathetic
than the old man. She had no expression in her face and she, too, made
no sound.

The awestruck boy did not stir. The midnight visitants to the empty
house did not notice him. They came up to the porch. They mounted the
steps and, without touching the fallen front door, passed silently into
the deserted mansion.

David did not know how long he waited, spellbound, after this
apparition. But no sound came forth from the house; no one reappeared.
The black cat rubbed against him the second time. Even the cat must have
been dumb, for she made no noise, did not even purr.

David Brewster was not a coward. If you had asked him in the broad
daylight if he were afraid of ghosts he would have been too disgusted at
the idea even to answer you. But to-night he could not reason, could not
think. As soon as he could g