“Well, that I just can’t tell, you see. On your legs, I suppose. They are strong and sturdy ones, anyhow.”
“And you’re not really a—a—ghost?”
“Ghost? Never a ghost. You see, lad, one wants to be dead before he adopts the profession of ghost; and I’ve never been dead at all yet, though I’ve been pretty near death’s door more than once. Shake hands. There, that doesn’t feel like a ghost’s hand, does it?”
“No, I was a little fool to be frightened; but I’m better now. Is it dark? I want to get home to mother and Phœbe.”
“So you shall, dearie; and there is a great big, big yellow moon to let you see your way.”
The boy’s face brightened at once. “I’ll have such a romantic story to tell mother and Phœbe when I get home,” he said laughingly.
The queer little man laughed too.
“I think,” he said, “you’re a clever boy. Who is Phœbe?”
“Oh, Phœbe is my sister, you know. And we live high up the hill yonder, in the white little cottage among the green, green trees and the wild flowers.”
“And what does your father do?”