"I mean not always, I've felt it several times—there was the cold the day before yesterday, and besides that, I've felt a—a sort of breaving"—Dormy was not perfect in his "th's"—"like somebody very unhappy."
"Sighing?" I suggested.
"Like sighing in a whisper," he replied, "and that's always near the door. But last week—no, not so long ago, it was on Monday—I went round that way when I was going to bed. I didn't want to be silly. But it was moonlight—and—Leila, a shadow went all along the wall on that side, and stopped at the door. I saw it waggling about—its hands," and here he shivered—"on that funny curtain that hangs up, as if it were feeling for a minute or two, and then——"
"Well,—what then?"
"It just went out," he said simply. "But it's moonlight again to-night, sister, and I daren't see it again. I just daren't."
"But you did go to the dining-room that way," I reminded him.
"Yes, but I shut my eyes and ran, and even then I felt as if something cold was behind me."
"Dormy, dear," I said, a good deal concerned, "I do think it's your fancy. You are not quite well yet, you know."
"Yes, I am," he replied sturdily. "I'm not a bit frightened anywhere else. I sleep in a room alone you know. It's not me, sister, its somefing in the gallery."
"Would you be frightened to go there with me now? We can run through the dining-room; there's no one to see us," and I turned in that direction as I spoke.