Susan was determined not to be frightened by her sweet-heart's tricks, so she tripped boldly out into the garden, still carrying the brass candlestick.
At the first step the wind blew out the candle; but, of course, that was of very little consequence when the bright moonlight made everything as clearly visible as at noon.
"I know who it is," cried Susan, in a voice intended to reach the baker; "and it's a great shame to try and frighten a poor girl when she's sitting all alone by herself."
She had scarcely uttered the words when the candlestick fell from her extended hand, and she stood rooted to the gravel pathway—a statue of fear.
Exactly opposite to her, slowly advancing towards the open door of the scullery, she saw an awful figure—whose description was too familiar to her.
There it was. The ghost—the shadowy image of the man who had destroyed himself in that house. A tall, spectral figure, robed in a long garment of grey serge; a scarlet handkerchief twisted round the head rendered the white face whiter by contrast with it.
As this awful figure approached, Susan Trott stepped backwards on the grass, leaving the pathway clear for the dreadful visitant.
The ghostly form stalked on with slow and solemn steps, and entered the house by the scullery door. For some minutes Susan remained standing on the grass, horror-struck, powerless to move. Then all at once feminine curiosity got the better even of terror, and she followed the phantom figure into the house.
From the kitchen doorway she beheld the figure standing on the hearth, his arms stretched above the fireplace, as if groping for something in the chimney.
Doubtless this had been the miser's hiding-place for his hoarded gold, and the ghost returned to the spot where the living man had been accustomed to conceal his treasures.