“Yes, ma’am—the ghost,” went on Old Hanson. “Th’ hant. It’s drove me out, and I never thought it would. I thought I could stand most anything, but it’s got terrible bad lately.”
“How—what does er—it—do?” faltered Mrs. Bonnell. Somehow, it seemed rather uncanny to talk about the matter.
“Oh, it goes on something terrible!” exclaimed the old hermit. “Groans and cryin’ in the middle of the night, an’ movin’ about—takin’ things——”
“Taking things?”
“Yep—lots of my things has disappeared—my blankets and some of my grub—I ain’t goin’ t’ stand it; I’m movin’!”
“Does—it—really groan?” asked Mabel, and she could not repress a shiver.
“Yes, ma’am, it do. An’ cries, too. I heard it all last night, an’ I couldn’t sleep. And when I go in the old mill day-times, something like a cold wind brushes past me.”
“Maybe it is a cold wind,” suggested Alice. “I’m sure the old place must be draughty enough.”
“It wa’n’t no wind,” affirmed the old man, as he piled a chair on top of his scanty belongings in the wagon. The other—evidently a hired man—did not talk, except to the horses.
“So I’m goin’ t’ pull out,” went on Old Hanson. “Th’ mill’s mine—sech as ’tis—but the hant can have it if it wants it. I’ve got no use fer it. I want t’ sleep in peace nights. Sech groans—sech cries—you never heard th’ like.”