Clare had been heard to say that the very sight of the ghost would be sufficient to strike her dead.
Beautiful Golden, who was as changeful as the summer breeze, began to laugh at the mischievous idea which had occurred to her.
"What a fine joke it would be to personate poor Erma Glenalvan," she thought. "How Clare and Elinor would fly from the festive scene when I appeared, weeping and wringing my hands."
She had heard the ghost described by Dinah, who averred that she had seen it several times.
She remembered the long, white robe, the flowing veil of golden hair, the pearl necklace, the wondrous beauty, shining, as old Dinah declared, like a star.
The beauty, the youth, the veil of golden hair she had. But the dress and the pearls. Where should she find them?
An old wardrobe which had once belonged, no doubt, to the love-lorn Erma, stood against the wall. Golden pulled the door open, not without some little fear, and looked in at the collection of moth-eaten dresses that hung on the pegs.
She could not tell whom they belonged to, for she had never looked into the wardrobe before, but she guessed that they were very old, for a cloud of dust rose from them as the door flew open, and as she touched them with her hand, some of the folds fell into rents, and showed how long they had been the prey of the moth.
But as Golden pulled one after another down from the pegs and tossed them into a rainbow heap on the floor, she came to one at last that would serve her purpose.
It was a long, white dress of rich, brocaded silk, yellowed by time, antique in style, but tolerably well-preserved.