"Nothing," she said.
"Someone whistling," he said.
"No, I didn‘t hear it."
"I’m going to get up to see anyhow."
He put on his robe and walked through the house to the front door. Hesitating, he pulled the door wide, and rain fell cold upon his face. The wind blew.
In the dooryard stood a small figure.
Lightning cracked the sky, and a wash of white colour illuminated the face looking in at old LaFarge there in the doorway.
"Who‘s there?" called LaFarge, trembling.
No answer.
"Who is it? What do you want?"
Still not a word.
He felt very weak and tired and numb. "Who are you?" he cried.
His wife entered behind him and took his arm. "Why are you shouting?"
"A small boy‘s standing in the yard and won‘t answer me," said the old man, trembling. "He looks like Tom!"
"Come to bed, you're dreaming."
"But he‘s there; see for yourself"
He pulled the door wider to let her see. The cold wind blew and the thin rain fell upon the soil and the figure stood looking at them with distant eyes. The old woman held to the doorway.
"Go away!" she said, waving one hand. "Go away!"
"Doesn‘t it look like Tom?" asked the old man.
The figure didn’t move.
"I’m afraid," said the old woman. "Lock the door and come to bed. I won‘t have anything to do with it."
She vanished, moaning to herself into the bedroom.
The old man stood with the wind raining coldness on his hands.