I continued with my chatter: "I should like you to be my friend. I think you can tell me stories. I like stories." "You like stories, eh?" he said. "Exciting ones," I answered in an awed voice, "that make you feel _hrrrrh_!" I shuddered to express my meaning, and he laughed aloud. "Ghost stories?" he asked. "I've seen a ghost," I replied very quietly. "The devil you have!" he cried. "I tell you, yes," I went on, with something of my father's tense expression in my voice. "I've seen a ghost. Here. This house is haunted. You like ghosts too, that you've come to live here?" I put the question with a simplicity that surprised myself; for by now I knew I was acting a part, and yet couldn't bring myself to speak naturally. A constraint was upon me to carry on the play. I think the old man was delighted, for he broke out into a great peal of laughter, such as I associated with my imaginary type of jolly sea-captain, and exclaimed, "Like ghosts, eh? Well, they're not exactly friends of mine. Though I suppose we shall all be ghosts some day, eh?" "Yes," I said in a hushed voice, "all ghosts some day." I was appalled at the change in his face. All the merriment died out of it, and his eyes became bright and piercing. "What do you mean, eh? What do you mean?" he cried, gripping me by the arm. I was alarmed at this sudden transformation, for the shadow which I had seen lurking like a little speck in the corner of his eyes seemed to have overspread his whole countenance. There was something, too, of that awful imbecile look I had seen that night on my father's face when he had told me the story of the Mad Captain. I stood looking stupidly up at him, and presently he relaxed his hold, and with a sigh drew his arm across his face as though to brush away the pain that had so suddenly overshadowed it. I said, "I think you've seen a ghost too." It was an unfortunate speech, for the frenzy surged back to his countenance, and his eyes blazed savagely at me. Again he caught me in his hands, and his whole body was quivering. "Ghosts!" he cried. "Ghosts! Ah, don't you ever speak of ghosts. They wake you in the dark, and you open your eyes, and they are staring at you, staring.... And they die away with a moan, till the blood runs cold about your heart. And your throat is dry, and you can't speak. And your limbs are stiff, and won't move.... Ghosts!..." "Yes," I said, "I know." "You know?" he shouted; and laughed foolishly. "I've seen. Here. This house is haunted. And I've heard them. They cry in the night, and sob bitterly, and call to you, till you want to go to them; but they only lead you on and on and trap you somewhere, or drown you in the river, or take you to the quarry where you'd fall and kill yourself." "You've heard them, eh?" he said. "Yes, at night-time; when the wind is out; and sometimes when it's still. It sounds very sad as though some one is lost or dying or is looking for a friend. It hurts you to listen."