“What sort of story do you want?” she asked. “Something pathetic, or a story of adventure, or a humorous story or a ghost story or–”
An approving shout interrupted her. “Oh, a ghost story, Aunt Abigail!”
Priscilla clapped her hands. “Isn’t this simply perfect! The firelight on the wall, and shadows flickering, and then a ghost story to crown everything. Do make it a creepy one, Aunt Abigail.”
Aunt Abigail hardly needed urging along that line. She had been an omnivorous reader all her days, and from books, as well as from what she had picked up on her travels, she had acquired an unsurpassed collection of weird incidents which she now began to recount with dramatic effect. The girls sat spellbound, and when, at the conclusion of the first story, a faint little wail sounded from the distance, the general start was indicative of tense nerves.
But it was only Dorothy, awake and standing at the head of the stairs. “Aunt Peggy!”
“Go back to bed, darling.”
“But, Aunt Peggy, what d’you s’pose those little angels have done now? They’ve bited me right on my fourhead.”
“Oh, my!” Peggy ran up the stairs, to a justly aggrieved Dorothy, indicating an inflamed lump on her forehead, as a proof of misplaced confidence. Peggy lit the candle and after some search discovered a swollen mosquito, perched on the head of Dorothy’s bed, ready to resume operations at the first opportunity. Gluttony had lessened his natural agility, and at Peggy’s avenging hand he paid the penalty of his crime. Peggy lingered to correct Dorothy’s misapprehension, and then went down-stairs, to find another blood-curdling tale in progress, and the girls sitting breathless, while the firelight threw fantastic shapes upon the wall, and the shadows looked startlingly black by contrast.
Ten o’clock was the sensible bedtime decided on in Dolittle Cottage, but on this occasion the big clock chimed ten unheeded. Apparently Aunt Abigail’s repertoire was far from being exhausted. She had rung the changes on all the familiar horrors in a dozen stories, and yet no one seemed willing to have her stop. It was quarter of eleven when Peggy remarked reluctantly: “Girls, if we’re going to get up any time to-morrow, we’d better-be going to bed.”
The suggestion was not received with enthusiasm. Priscilla declared that she wasn’t a bit sleepy, and the others all echoed the statement. Then Aunt Abigail was appealed to, for just one more, and complied without any pretence of reluctance. Aunt Abigail was enjoying herself hugely, and it was characteristic of her amiable irresponsibility that it never occurred to her that there might be undesirable consequences, from thus stimulating the vivid imaginations of a party of sensitive girls.