rrible that it is sure to have rats in it, if
nothing worse. I feel that it would be better for all of us not to go
in. Suppose we should see something queer? What could we do?"

"Phyllis Alden, the very idea of your suggesting that we turn
'quitters'!" expostulated Madge. "Do you suppose we could face Miss
Jenny Ann and the girls if we retreat before we even know there is an
enemy? Come on, Miss Betsey; you and I will go on ahead. Let Phil come
with David if she likes."

Madge danced up the old, tumbled-down veranda steps, guided by the rays
of her lantern. Each one of the women had relit her lantern to enter the
deserted house. Once inside they might put them out again. But who could
tell what they might stumble against in a house that was supposed never
to have been entered in nearly forty years?

Madge pushed at the front door, which hung by a broken hinge, and drew
Miss Betsey in after her. "Oh, dear me, isn't it awful?" she whispered.

Not one of the ghost party had spoken in an ordinary voice since the
start of their adventure. Somehow their errand, the darkness of the
night and their own feelings made whispered tones seem more appropriate.

The four explorers gazed silently at the sight that Madge described as
"awful." They had expected to find the "ha'nted house" empty of
furniture. Yet in the broad hall there was an open fireplace. On either
side of it were great oak arm-chairs. Spider webs hung in beautiful
silver festoons from the mantel, with their many-legged spinners caught
in their mesh. Gray mice, lean and terrified, scuttled across the dusty
floor. A bat flapped blindly overhead.

Miss Betsey caught Madge by the hand. "I can almost see dead people
sitting in those dusty chairs," she murmured. "Let us go on upstairs. I
wish this thing were over."

The railing had fallen away from the steps, that were covered not only
with dust but with a kind of slippery mould, as many winters' rain had
fallen down upon them from the holes in the roof. David crawled up
first, pulling Madge, Phyllis and Miss Betsey after him. They groped
their way to the front bedroom.

"I won't go in there; I shall wait here in the hall," Phil said
pettishly. "I can't help thinking of Harry Sears's story about the sick
girl in that old house on Cape Cod."

David shoved at the closed door. It was fastened tight. Had the room
been locked against intruders for nearly half a century? But ghosts do
not hesitate at closed doors. Dav