Now it was in sight again—at least, some figure was there. There was no mistaking it, for it was too plain to be anything else but a moving elfin thing.
“Oh,” whispered Terry, “do you think, Arden, that Harry could have disturbed it?”
“Disturbed what?”
“This ghost—I mean, perhaps he came upon the place where it hides in the house and it ran out—no, ghosts don’t run, they sort of float, like smoke, don’t they? Oh, Arden, I’m frightened!”
Then, fascinated, they watched and saw the red-clad figure seemingly capering about, doing a strange dance in the snow. And suddenly it started toward where they were half hidden by bushes and trees. Coming toward them!
“Oh!” screamed Terry. “Come on, Arden!” She turned to run, uttered a sudden cry of pain as she clutched her right ankle and sank down helplessly in the snow.
“Terry! What is it?” begged Arden, dropping to her side.
“My ankle! I twisted it when I turned to run! Oh, how it hurts! I hope I haven’t broken it!”
“I don’t believe you did, my dear! Ankles don’t break as easily as that. Oh, I’m so sorry!” She took some snow up in her hand and pressed it on Terry’s forehead, now wrinkled with pain. It flashed into Arden’s mind that she was going to have trouble getting Terry back to Sim’s house—walking with even a slightly sprained ankle was out of the question. Then, with a feeling of relief, she thought of Harry in the ghost house. She would have to leave Terry there in the snow, however, to go get him to come to the rescue.
“I’m so sorry,” Arden murmured. “Poor Terry!”