“It is strange,” said my grandfather one winter’s evening, as we sat by the log fire, roasting chestnuts and watching the flames leaping and dancing in harmony with the music of the crackling of the fuel and the bursting of the nuts. “I was saying, Tom, that it was strange that the trivial incidents and events of one’s early life stand out so clearly through all the years that have slipped by, and seem as vivid and real as the things of yesterday.”
Then grandfather stopped and looked at the fire, evidently in deep thought, from which we children knew from past experience he would evolve some story which would call for all our interest and attention.
And so it proved, for, rousing himself suddenly, he hurried into a narrative at once strange and interesting.
“Yes,” he said, “ghost storie
