Judith’s introverted gaze dropped to the girl’s face.
“I reckon that gal died,” she suggested musingly, “I don’t know as I’d care much ef the coffin come for me. Unless—he—was to come, I’d ruther it would be the coffin. Pendrilly,” with a sudden upflash of interest, “what is it that comes? Is it the man hisself—or a ghost?”
“’T ain’t a ghost—a shore-enough ha’nt,” argued Pendrilla soberly, sitting back on her heels, “not unless ’n the man’s dead, hit couldn’t be. Hit wasn’t no ha’nt of Grandpap Peavey—and yet hit wasn’t grandpap hisself. I reckon it was a sort of seemin’—jest like a vision in the Bible. Don’t you, Jude?”
“I ’low,” put in Cliantha doubtfully, “that if the right feller is close by when he’s called by a dumb supper, he comes hisself. But ef he’s away off somewhars that he cain’t git to the place, then this here seemin’ comes. An’ ef he’s dead and gone—why you’ll see his ha’nt.”
“They’s jest three of us,” whispered Pendrilla. “Three is the right number—but I know in my soul I’d be scared till I wouldn’t be no manner of use to anybody.”
“Hit’s comin’ close to Hollow Eve,” suggested Cliantha. “That’s the time to hold a dumb supper ef one ever should be held. Hit’ll work then, ef it wouldn’t on no other night of the year.”
“It has to be held in a desarted house,” Pendrilla reiterated the condition. “Ef you was to hold a dumb supper, Jude, we could go to the old Bonbright house itse’f—ef we had any way to git in.”
“I’ve got the key,” said Judith scarcely above her breath. “Creed left it with me away last April, to get things for the—for the play-party.”