em.

"_Why!_" she cackled. "Of all things! You naughty, _naughty_ child! You
ought to be in bed and asleep!"

Willem shrank under the rebuke, but a touch of Peter Grimm's hand and a
whispered word of encouragement braced him to reply:

"Old Mynheer Grimm's come back."

In the midst of her tirade Mrs. Batholommey stopped, open-mouthed. She
stared at the boy in dismay. His face, as well as his voice, was
unperturbed. He had stated merely what seemed to him a perfectly natural
but very welcome truth. He had supposed she would be pleased, not
petrified. He had told her the news in the hope of averting a scolding.
But she did not seem to take it in the sense of his simple declaration.
So he repeated it.

"Old Mynheer Grimm's come back, Mrs. Batholommey."

She gurgled wordlessly, then sputtered:

"What are you talking about, child? 'Old Mynheer Grimm,' as you call
him, is dead. You know that."

"No, he isn't," stoutly contradicted Willem. "He's come back. He's in
this room right now. At least," he added as he glanced about and could
not feel the Dead Man's presence, "at least he was a minute ago. I know,
because I've been talking to him."

"Absurd!"

"I've been talking to him. He was standing just where you are now."

Mrs. Batholommey instinctively started. In fact, despite her age and
bulk and the fact that she was built for endurance rather than for
speed, she jumped high into the air, with an incredible lightness and
agility, and came to earth several feet away from the spot Willem had
designated.

"At least," explained the boy, "he _seemed_ to be about there. But he
seemed to be _everywhere_."

Recovering her smashed self-poise, Mrs. Batholommey frowned with lofty
majesty, tempered by womanly concern.

"You are feverish again," she said. "I hoped you were all over it.
You're light-headed, you poor little fellow."

Kathrien, the bed being re-made, hurried downstairs to get Willem.

"His mind is wandering," said Mrs. Batholommey. "He imagines all sorts
of ridiculous, impossible things."

Kathrien dropped into a chair by the fire and gathered the fragile
little body into her lap.

"Yes," went on Mrs. Batholommey, "he is out of his head. I think I'll
run over and get the doctor."

"You need not trouble to," said Peter Grimm. "_I_ have sent for him.
Though he doesn't know it. He is coming up the walk."

The Dead Man turned toward the front door, the old quizzical smile on
his lips.

"Come in, Andre