My daughters looking pale, I insisted upon taking them out for a walk that morning, when the following conversation ensued:
“My worst presentiments about that table are being verified, papa,” said Julia; “not for nothing was that intimation of the cloven foot on my shoulder.”
“Nonsense,” said I. “Let us go into Mrs. Brown’s, and have an ice-cream.”
The spirit of Democritus was stronger on me now. By a curious coincidence, it strengthened with the strength of the sunlight.
“But is it not miraculous,” said Anna, “how a bug should come out of a table?”
“Not at all, my daughter. It is a very common thing for bugs to come out of wood. You yourself must have seen them coming out of the ends of the billets on the hearth.”
“Ah, but that wood is almost fresh from the woodland. But the table is at least a hundred years old.”
“What of that?” said I, gayly. “Have not live toads been found in the hearts of dead rocks, as old as creation?”
“Say what you will, papa, I feel it is spirits,” said Julia. “Do, do now, my dear papa, have that haunted table removed from the house.”
“Nonsense,” said I.