The story had held us,
           round the fire,
         sufficiently breathless,
           but except the obvious remark
             that it was gruesome,
         as,
           on Christmas Eve
               in an old house,
         a strange tale
            should essentially be,
           I remember no comment uttered
             till somebody happened to say
                 that it
                    was the only case
                 he had met
                   in which such a visitation
                    had fallen on a child.

    The case,
           I may mention,
         was that
               of an apparition in
              just such
                   an old house as
            had gathered us
                   for the occasion
          -- an appearance,
           of a dreadful kind,
         to a little boy
              sleeping in the room
                   with his mother and
                  waking her
                       up in the terror
                           of it;
        waking her not
              to dissipate his dread
                  and soothe him
                      to sleep again,
           but to encounter also,
         herself,
           before she
            had succeeded in doing so,
         the same sight
             that had shaken him.

    It was this observation
         that drew from Douglas
           --not immediately,
               but later in the evening--
            a reply
             that had the interesting consequence
               to which I call attention.

    Someone else
          told a story not
              particularly effective,
           which I saw
             he was not following.

    This I
        took for a sign
         that he
            had himself something
                  to produce and
         that we
            should only have to wait.

    We waited in fact
         till two nights later;
        but that same evening,
           before we scattered,
         he brought out
             what was in his mind.

    "I quite agree
         --in regard to Griffin's ghost,
               or whatever it was--
            that its appearing first
               to the little boy,
           at so tender an age,
         adds a particular touch.

    But it's
           not the first occurrence
               of its charming kind
         that I know
              to have involved a child.

    If the child
        gives the effect
               another turn of the screw,
           what do you
              say to TWO children
          --?"

    "We say,
           of course,"
          somebody exclaimed,
               "that they give two turns!

    Also that
         we want
              to hear about them."

    I can see Douglas there
         before the fire,
           to which
             he had
                got up
                      to present his back,
         looking down
               at his interlocutor
             with his
            hands in his pockets.

    "Nobody but me,
           till now,
         has ever heard.

    It's quite too horrible."

    This,
           naturally,
         was declared by several voices
              to give
                   the thing
                 the utmost price,
           and our friend,
         with quiet art,
           prepared his triumph
               by turning his eyes
                   over the
              rest of us and
                  going on:
         "It's beyond everything.

    Nothing at all
         that I know touches it."

    "For sheer terror?"

    I remember asking.

    He seemed to say it
        was not so simple
               as that;
        to be
              really at a loss
             how to qualify it.

    He passed his
          hand over his eyes,
           made a little wincing grimace.

    "For dreadful
          --dreadfulness!"

    "Oh,
           how delicious!"

    cried one of the women.

    He took
           no notice of her;
        he looked at me,
           but as if,
         instead of me,
           he saw
             what he spoke of.

    "For general uncanny ugliness
           and horror and pain."

    "Well then,"
          I said,
               "just sit right
                   down and begin."

    He turned round
           to the fire,
         gave a kick
               to a log,
         watched it an instant.

    Then as
         he faced us again:
           "I can't begin.

    I shall have
          to send to town."

    There was a unanimous groan
           at this,
         and much reproach;
        after which,
           in his preoccupied way,