But there was not the faintest twinkle there, nor any sound of life.

Only solemn, unanswering darkness.

Somewhere in the woods a solitary screech owl was hooting its discordant song.
"Is--is--anybody here ?" Peter asked, his voice shaking.

There was no answer, nothing but silent, enveloping darkness.
Peter groped behind him for the old piece of broomstick which propped the window open, and with this in place, he leaned far out and gazed toward the little graveyard where his father and his grandfather and all the simple forbears of the lonely neighborhood had gone to their rest.
Not a sound was there in that solemn little acre.

He strained his eyes and tried to identify the place by Deacon Small's tall, white tombstone, but he could not make it out.
Suddenly, just above that silent, hallowed little area, a tall gray thing appeared, then disappeared as suddenly.
Peter trembled, yet gazed in fascination.