“What can I do for you, my poor bairns?” said she. “There, never mind the scraps, Tommy.”
“Tell us a tale, Granny. If you told us a new one, I shouldn’t keep thinking of that bread in the cupboard.—Come Johnny, and sit against me. Now then!”
“I doubt if there’s one of my old-world cracks I haven’t told you,” said the old lady, “unless it’s a queer ghost story was told me years ago of that house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows.”
“Oh! not ghosts!” Tommy broke in; “we’ve had so many. I know it was a rattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and if it turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, I hate it.”
“It was nothing of the sort as a tombstone,” said the old lady with dignity. “It’s a good half-mile from the church-yard. And as to white petticoats, there wasn’t a female in the house; he wouldn’t have one; and his victuals came in by the pantry window. But never mind! Though it’s as true as a sermon.”
Johnnie lifted his head from his brother’s knee.
“Let Granny tell what she likes, Tommy. It’s a new ghost, and I should like to know who he was, and why his victuals came in by the window.”
“I don’t like a story about victuals,” sulked Tommy. “It makes me think of the bread. O Granny dear! do tell us a fairy story. You never will tell us about the Fairies, and I know you know.”
“Hush! hush!” said the old lady. “There’s Miss Surbiton’s Love Letter, and her Dreadful End.”
“I know Miss Surbiton, Granny. I think she was a goose. Why won’t you tell us about the Fairies?”