Philomène started up from her toadstool, and went quite white. “In my room?” she exclaimed, and her breath caught, “in my bedroom here at home?”
“Sit down, child,” said Sweet William, “and don’t be theatrical, for pity’s sake. There’s nothing at all to make a commotion about; it’s only a White Létiche.”
“And what is that, please?” asked Philomène, sitting down again and trying to steady her voice, though she was still rather pale.
“A White Létiche,” said Sweet William, “is the spirit of a child who was never christened, and visits, unseen, the rooms of children.”
“Is my Létiche a baby, then?” asked Philomène.
“Oh, no,” said Sweet William, “she was about twelve when she died, and a very sweet little girl she was too. She won’t even appear to you unless you want her to, and then only on the 31st of October.”
“Only on All Souls’ Eve if I want her to,” thought Philomène, “oh, well then, it isn’t nearly as bad as it sounded at first.”
“I was meaning to tell you something more about the people in your house,” Sweet William continued, “the same house which, if I may remind you, you at one time considered so extremely uninteresting, but you seemed so much upset when I told you it had a White Létiche, that perhaps you will leave me altogether when I tell you that there is a white witch living in it too.”
“I certainly shouldn’t be rude and ungrateful enough to leave you,” returned Philomène stoutly, “and I will try not to get frightened again, but I am afraid I don’t know what a white witch is either. Godmother told me lots about fairies, but I think she did not want me to know a great deal about witches, perhaps because she thought it might make me nervous when I went to bed.”
“And judging from the exhibition you made of yourself just now,” retorted Sweet William, “your godmother seems to have proved herself a woman of sense. Well, you must know that there are black witches and white witches, and that black witches often turn into black cats, and white witches into——”