boastful thing. When I see you as I saw you last, small and white
and clear and brave, I can't think of anything but the first
crocuses at White Orchards, shining out, demure and valiant,
fearless of wind and storm and cold--fearless of Fear itself. You see,
you're so very, very brave that you make me ashamed to be afraid of
poetry and sentiment and pretty words--things of which I have a good,
thumping Anglo-Saxon terror, I can tell you! It's because I know
what a heavenly brick you are that I could have killed that
statistical jackass for bothering you; but I'll forgive him, since
you say that it's all right. And so ghosts are the only things in
the world that frighten you--even though you know that there aren't
any. You and Madame de Staël, hey? 'I do not believe in ghosts, but I
fear them!' It's pretty painful to learn that the mere sight of one
would turn you into a gibbering lunatic. Nice sell for an
enthusiastic spirit who'd romped clear back from heaven to give you
a pleasant surprise--I _don't_ think! Well, no fear, young
Janie--I'll find some way if I'm put to it--some nice, safe, pretty
way that wouldn't scare a neurasthenic baby, let alone the dauntless
Miss Abbott. I'll find--"

Oh, no more of that--no more! She crushed the sheet in her hands
fiercely, crumpling it into a little ball--the candle-flame was too
slow. No, she couldn't stand it--she couldn't--she couldn't,
and there was an end to it. She would go raving mad--she would
kill herself--she would--She lifted her head, wrenched suddenly
back from that chaos of despair, alert and intent. There it was
again, coming swiftly nearer and nearer from some immeasurable
distance--down--down--nearer still--the very room was humming and
throbbing with it--she could almost hear the singing in the wires.
She swung far out over the window edge, searching the moon-drenched