“Was there a fire in the grate?”
“No, ma’am, and no sign of one. Why, there hasn’t been a fire there since winter time. But the smoke didn’t come from the fireplace, exactly,—it was sort of around the room,—and a smell like that of fresh kindled wood.”
“You could imagine the odour, Janet,” demurred Henrietta.
“No, ma’am, I didn’t. It was too strong for that. You know, ma’am, there’s no smell like that of a fresh wood fire.”
“And no ashes or burnt wood in the fireplace?”
“No, ma’am; it was clean as clean.”
“You see, Henrietta,” said her mother; “Poltergeist is the only thing that explains that. They carry fire about as easily as we carry water.”
“I don’t want to believe it,” said Henrietta, slowly,—“it’s too absurd,—but Janet has always been a truthful girl—”
“Oh, it’s the truth I’m telling, miss,” Janet avowed, “and I was that scared I never mentioned it to nobody.”
“That’s like Janet, too,” observed Mrs. Webb; “she’s very close-mouthed. But you should have told us.”