"He's sound asleep, deary, the fit having passed. A gal o' mine, of the true Romany breed, looking after him. Your sweet husband here"—she waved a skinny hand towards Vand—"asked me to come and see what I could do to lay this unquiet spirit who walks."
"Rubbish! rubbish!" said Mrs. Vand, now feeling more confident in company.
"It's not rubbish, deary," said Mrs. Tunks, mysteriously; "the dead walk."
"The dead?"
"Your poor brother, as is uneasy at having been pitched out of life so cruel. He's walking," and she nodded weirdly.
On hearing this statement, Sarah whimpered and clutched at Mrs. Vand's dress, whereupon that lady who was extremely pale herself—shook her off. "Go to bed, Sarah," she commanded.
"Me!" screeched the girl, "and when there's ghosts walking! I'd scream myself into fits if I went up-stairs."
Mrs. Vand appealed to her husband. "Henry, make her go."
The young man took the girl by the shoulders, and propelled her towards the foot of the stairs, but Sarah resisted wildly, and finally made a bolt for the still open front door. "I'll go home to mother," she cried hysterically, and disappeared into the darkness.
"There," said Mrs. Vand, angrily, to Granny Tunks. "See what you've done. The house will get a bad name. I'll give that minx warning in the morning."