She got paler and paler every day , but the pink butterfly grew redder , until it looked just like a stain of blood on her white cheek . When the winter came she died . But next spring '' -- the Story Girl dropped her voice to a whisper that was as audible and thrilling as her louder tones -- `` people began to tell that Emily was sometimes seen waiting under the birches still . Nobody knew just who told it first . But more than one person saw her . Grandfather saw her when he was a little boy . And my mother saw her once . '' `` Did YOU ever see her ? '' asked Felix skeptically . `` No , but I shall some day , if I keep on believing in her , '' said the Story Girl confidently . `` I would n't like to see her . I 'd be afraid , '' said Cecily with a shiver . `` There would n't be anything to be afraid of , '' said the Story Girl reassuringly . `` It 's not as if it were a strange ghost . It 's our own family ghost , so of course it would n't hurt us . '' We were not so sure of this . Ghosts were unchancy folk , even if they were our family ghosts . The Story Girl had made the tale very real to us . We were glad we had not heard it in the evening . How could we ever have got back to the house through the shadows and swaying branches of a darkening orchard ?
As it was , we were almost afraid XXXXX look up it , lest we should see the waiting , blue-clad Emily under Uncle Alec 's tree .
as if in like of than through to until with