“Oh, Ross, ain’t you glad I killed him?”
“Yes—oh, I hardly know, Bessie, whether I am glad or not. Poor little sister, I am so sorry for you.”
“Oh, don’t pity me, Ross. I told the ghosts I’d kill him, and I’m so glad he came.”
“Hush, Bessie.”
“Ha! ha! ha! I don’t care, I can kill him again if I choose.”
She stepped softly toward the bed, and throwing back the heavy mass of dusky hair, she raised her white hands above her head, and with her wild eyes fixed upon the face of the man before her she said:
“It is too bad to lie there that way. But just wait; to-night the ghosts will come and they will stand all about your bed and you will hear them laugh, and oh, how they will shriek and groan, and they will take you in their long, bony arms, just the way they did me, and carry you away out in the storm, and then they will set you down on your baby’s grave.”
“Take her away,” said the wounded man.
“Ah, they can’t take me away. I mean to stay here just as long as I want to, and I will tell you such nice long stories about the ghosts.”