Jane sat up angrily.
“What’s the idea, sneaking in like a ghost?” she demanded.
The orphan started to sob.
“I was afraid of waking you,” she explained. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Well, it’s all right now,” said Mary Louise soothingly. “Ordinarily we shouldn’t have been scared. But in this house, where everybody talks about seeing ghosts all the time, it’s natural for us to be keyed up.”
“Why that woman doesn’t put in electricity,” muttered Jane, “is more than I can see. It’s positively barbarous!”
“Come over and sit here on the bed, Elsie, and tell us why you came downstairs,” invited Mary Louise. “Are you afraid of the storm?”
“Yes, a little bit. But I thought I heard something down in the yard.”
“Old Mrs. Grant’s ghost?” inquired Jane lightly.
“Maybe it was Abraham Lincoln Jones, returning for more chickens,” surmised Mary Louise. “But no, it couldn’t be, or Silky would be barking—he could hear that from the cellar—so it must be just the wind, Elsie. It does make an uncanny sound through all those trees.”