Again my little brother hesitated.
"I'll go with you if you'll hold hands," he said, "but I'll shut my eyes. And I won't open them till you tell me there's no shadow on the wall. You must tell me truly."
"But there must be some shadows," I said, "in this bright moonlight, trees and branches, or even clouds scudding across—something of that kind is what you must have seen, dear."
He shook his head.
"No, no, of course I wouldn't mind that. I know the difference. No—you couldn't mistake. It goes along, right along, in a creeping way, and then at the door its hands come farther out, and it feels."
"Is it like a man or a woman?" I said, beginning to feel rather creepy myself.
"I think it's most like a rather little man," he replied, "but I'm not sure. Its head has got something fuzzy about it—oh, I know, like a sticking out wig. But lower down it seems wrapped up, like in a cloak. Oh, it's horrid."
And again he shivered—it was quite time all this nightmare nonsense was put out of his poor little head.
I took his hand and held it firmly; we went through the dining-room. Nothing could have looked more comfortable and less ghostly. For the lights were still burning on the table, and the flowers in their silver bowls, some wine gleaming in the glasses, the fruit and pretty dishes, made a pleasant glow of colour. It certainly seemed a curiously sudden contrast when we found ourselves in the gallery beyond, cold and unillumined, save by the pale moonlight streaming through the unshuttered windows. For the door closed with a bang as we passed through—the gallery was a draughty place.
Dormy's hold tightened.