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The pond in view, they halted, and took a furtive glance,
beginning to feel somewhat chill. So far as these half glances allowed
them to judge, there appeared to be nothing near to it, nothing upon its
brink.
"It's of no good marching right up to it," said Mrs. Jones, the baker's
wife. "The ghost mightn't come at all, if it saw all us there. Let's get
inside the trees."
Mrs. Jones meant inside the grove of trees. The proposition was most
acceptable, and they took up their position, the pond in view, peeping
out, and conversing in a whisper. By and by they heard the church clock
strike eight.
"I wish it'ud make haste," exclaimed Susan Peckaby, with some
impatience. "I don't never like to be away from home long together, for
fear of that there blessed white animal arriving."
"He'd wait, wouldn't he?" sarcastically rejoined Polly Dawson.
"He'd----"
A prolonged hush--sh--sh! from the rest restored silence. Something was
rustling the trees at a distance. They huddled closer together, and
caught hold one of another.
Nothing appeared. The alarm went off.


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