“There,” said Sandy, blundering through the swing-gate and standing in the churchyard. “Who’sh afraid? Where’sh yer ghosh—eh?”
“Hallo!” said a voice at his elbow, while it seemed that a cold, icy, chilling breath swept over his cheek.
“Where’sh yer ghosh?” cried Sandy, startled and half sober already.
“Don’t make such a noise, man, we’re all here,” said the voice, “come along.”
“Eh?” cried Sandy, now quite sober and all of a shiver, for a cold breath seemed to have gone right through him, and he looked behind him on each side and then in front, but there was nothing visible but the glittering snow—covered graves and tombstones sparkling in the brilliant moonlight.
“Bah!” cried Sandy, “I don’t believe—”
“Yes, you do,” said the same voice, and again the cold breath seemed to go through Sandy and amongst his hair, so that it lifted his hat, already half off, and it fell to the ground.
“N-n-no, I don’t,” cried Sandy, trying to start off in a run, but he stopped short, for just in front of him stood a bright, glittering, white figure, apparently made of snow, only that it had jolly rosy cheeks, and a pair of the keenest eyes ever seen.
“Yes, you do, Sandy Brown,” said the same voice, “and so don’t contradict. Bring him along.”
In a moment, before he could turn himself, there came a rushing sound like when the wintry breeze plunges into a heap of leaves, and whirls and rustles them away, when Sandy felt himself turned in a moment as it were to ice, and then rising higher and higher as he was borne round and round for some distance; when in the midst of myriads of tiny, glittering, snow-like figures, he was carried all at once right over the church; while like a beam of light the figures swept on after him as now rising, now falling, then circling, he was at last wafted round and round the old church, till he was placed upon the tower top, and like a swarm of bees in summer, the tiny figures came clustering and humming round him till they were all settled.