“Perhaps it is the Carter ghost,” breathed Amy. “I never heard whether this haunt was a juvenile or an adult offender.”
“I guess you are not much afraid after all,” said her chum. “Yes, it is a child. And it is getting most awfully wet.”
“Wait! Wait!” the girl from Roselawn cried. “Don’t run away from me.”
Whether the child heard and understood her or not, it gave evidence of being greatly frightened. She covered her face with her hands and sank down on the wet sod, while the rain beat upon her unmercifully. There was no shelter here, and Jessie Norwood herself was getting thoroughly wet.
In a calm moment that followed the child piped, without taking down her hands.
“Are—are you the ha’nt?”
“What a question!” gasped Jessie, and seized the crouching figure by the shoulder. “Do I feel like a ghost? Why, it’s Henrietta!”
The clawlike hands dropped from the freckled face. The little girl stared.
“Goodness! I seen you before. You are the nice girl. You ain’t a ghost.”
“But you are sopping wet. Come up to the house at once, child.”