A stir, a shiver seemed to pass at once over the whole audience. Then—almost an unknown thing in Japan—a child’s shrill voice startled the silence. Mrs. Kurukawa reached out to catch Marion in her arms; the little girl had become almost paralyzed with fear. A moment later the candles were lighted. People looked at one another in the new light—everywhere faces were pale and lined with fear.
“Oh, let’s go home,” pleaded Marion, at which the mother arose.
“No, no!” protested Taro. “He’ll tell war-tales now. We want to stay.”
“Of course we do,” cried Billy. “That old cry-baby always spoils our fun.”
A smiling waitress with candy beans assured them that the lights would not be turned out again, and so Marion leaned against her mother resignedly.
“I wasn’t the only one afraid,” she said, plaintively. “All of you were, even mother, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was,” she answered, truthfully. “I didn’t know I could feel quite so shivery over a mere ghost-story.”
“Don’t they ever tell pretty fairy-stories?” asked Marion.
“No,” said Taro, disgustedly. “They would have no business then.”
“Story-tellers’ halls,” said Billy, didactically, “aren’t for girls. Girls haven’t the sense to enjoy tragedy.”