The third morning came a thaw, with a storm of wind and rain; and after lunch they gathered in the glooming library, and began to tell ghost stories. Walter happened to know a few of the rarer sort, and found himself in his element. His art came to help him, and the eyes of the ladies, and he rose to his best. As he was working one of his tales to its climax, Mr. Sefton entered the room, where Walter had been the only gentleman, and took a chair beside Lufa. She rose, saying,
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Colman, but would you mind stopping a minute while I get a little more red silk for my imperial dragon? Mr. Sefton has already taken the sting out of the snake!”
“What snake?” asked Sefton.
“The snake of terror,” she answered. “Did you not see him as you came in—erect on his coiled tail, drawing his head back for his darting spring?”
“I am very sorry,” said Sefton. “I have injured everybody, and I hope everybody will pardon me!”
When Lufa had found her silk, she took a seat nearer to Walter, who resumed and finished his narrative.
“I wonder she lived to tell it!” said one of the ladies.
“For my part,” rejoined their hostess, “I do not see why every one should be so terrified at the thought of meeting a ghost! It seems to me cowardly.”
“I don’t think it cowardly,” said Sefton, “to be frightened at a ghost, or at anything else.”
“Now don’t say you would run away!” remonstrated his sister.