was
was dark and quiet, too—there was only the ticking of some clock, far-off and more rattling windows. But after all it was not quite Pleasant, standing in a night-dress, with a rush-light, in a great dark silent house that, though it didn''t have thieves in, might cer-
tainly have ghosts. I closed the door quick, and went back to Maud''s oom and closed that door, and stepped to the side of her bed and put the light down.
She said, ''Did you see him? Oh, Agnes, is he there?''
I was about to answer, but then I stopped. For I had looked towards the corner of the room, where the black press was; and there was something strange there. There was something long and white and gleaming, that was moving against the wood . . . Well, I have said, haven''t I, that I''ve a warm imagination? I was certain that the thing was Maud''s dead mother, come back as a ghost to haunt me. My heart leapt so hard into my mouth, I seemed to taste it. I screamed, and Maud screamed, then clutched at me and wept harder. ''Don''t look at me!'' she cried. And then: ''Don''t leave me! Don''t leave me!''
And then I saw what the white thing really was, and hopped from foot to foot and almost laughed.
For it was only the cage of her crinoline, sprung out from where I had jammed it on the shelf with one of her shoes. The door of the press had swung open and hit the wall: that was the noise that had woken us. The crinoline was hanging from a hook, and quivering. My footsteps had made the springs bounce.