“What is their names?” quavered Uncle Israel, lighting his candle.
“Their names,” returned Mrs. Holmes, with a vast accession of dignity, “are Gladys Gwendolen and Algernon Paul! Good night!”
Just before dawn, a sheeted spectre appeared at the side of Sarah Smither’s bed, and swore the trembling woman to secrecy. It was long past sunrise before the frightened handmaiden came to her senses enough to recall that the voice of the apparition had been strangely like Mrs. Dodd’s.
XVI
Good Fortune
The next morning, Harlan and Dorothy ate breakfast by themselves. There was suppressed excitement in the manner of Mrs. Smithers, who by this time had quite recovered from her fright, and, as they readily saw, not wholly of an unpleasant kind. From time to time she tittered audibly—a thing which had never happened before.
“It’s just as if a tombstone should giggle,” remarked Harlan. His tone was low, but unfortunately, it carried well.
“Tombstone or not, just as you like,” responded Mrs. Smithers, as she came in with the bacon. “I’d be careful ’ow I spoke disrespectfully of tombstones if I was in your places, that’s wot I would. Tombstones is kind to some and cussed to others, that’s wot they are, and if you don’t like the monument wot’s at present in your kitchen, you know wot you can do.”