"Oh dear," said the doctor, "more tears! What an old ogre I must be. Don't cry, Marjory. Cheer up."
"I'm not crying," asserted Marjory, the tears streaming down her cheeks; "I only feel nice."
"I think you each need a handkerchief," said the doctor mischievously; and he went to a bureau which stood in a corner of the room, and took out two handkerchiefs of a bright Oriental pattern. He presented one to each of the girls.
"Gaudy, but not neat," he misquoted. "Still, you must own that they are better than nothing," he said significantly. "Now, as you ladies have invited yourselves, I think we'd better have a little supper together—eh?"
So saying, the doctor went to a cupboard in the wall, and took out a small spirit-lamp, on which he proceeded to set a kettle to boil. He brought out cups and saucers of delicate china and an antique silver teapot.
Marjory watched these operations in amazement. Next came milk and sugar from the cupboard, and finally a tin box containing some of Lisbeth's famous shortbread.
"I always keep supplies here," he explained, "because playing ghost is hungry work. Now then, ladies, make yourselves at home. No, Marjory; this is my party. I prefer to make the tea myself, and to pour it out. Let's play we're all dressed in our best, and let's enjoy ourselves as we couldn't if we were."
The girls laughed, their recent tears were forgotten, and they did justice to the doctor's impromptu banquet.
"I shall have to 'wash up' two of the cups and saucers," remarked the doctor, with a smile, "or Lisbeth will hear of my party; but I'll do it to-morrow when the coast is clear. Meanwhile, I'll lock them up in the cupboard," which he thereupon proceeded to do.
"I have greatly enjoyed your company, young ladies, but I cannot honestly say that I hope you will come again at one o'clock in the morning. Now I'm going to escort you back to bed. Go very quietly, so as not to wake anybody."