, the picture of terror.

"Of course, his story was greeted with knowing looks and sly winks
behind his back; and he told it to all who would listen. He continued to
fiddle about the village as he had done before, but he was never quite
the same after that adventure; the haunted house seemed to have a
fascination for him, and it was noticed that he hung about it
frequently, though he never entered. And when he announced his intention
of spending the next New Year's Eve with the phantoms, the people knew
he was crazy and urged him not to do so. But he could not resist; early
in the evening of that last day of the year, he was seen making his way
towards the haunted house, his fiddle beneath his arm.

"He never came back!"

CHAPTER XII

THE DINNER-DANCE

"And I thought all along that Miss Phillips didn't care!"

Marjorie made the remark softly, almost as if she were talking to
herself instead of to Lily, as the girls sat together in their room
crocheting after supper. All the Scouts had pledged the hour of seven to
eight in the evening, unless something unusual was going on, to work for
the bazaar.

"Didn't care about what?" asked Lily. "Men?"

Marjorie laughed. "No, not that. I mean about Frieda's being lost."

"Yes, I thought it was funny, too, though, of course, I didn't expect
her to throw up her job and go on an aimless sort of journey to find
her. Miss Phillips has too much good sense for anything wild like that."

"She has done the wisest thing possible by using that private
detective," continued Marjorie; "but somehow, Lil, I don't think she'll
ever find her. I think it's sort of up to us."

"But how?"

"That I don't know, except to keep our eyes open."

"Oh, Marj!" exclaimed Lily, interrupting her, and changing the subject.
"Do you 'spose the mail's been sorted? It was late to-night, you know."

"What makes you so anxious?" teased Marjorie. "Hearing from Dick
Roberts?"

"Now Marj--don't be silly!"

"But you are expecting something?"

Lily toyed with her crochet needle, pulling out a long loop of the wool
and holding it over her finger. The baby's sweater that she was making
was almost finished.

"Guess I will run down to the office," she said, putting her work upon
the table; "I'll be right back."

By the time she returned Marjorie had forgotten all about the mail; her
thoughts were again with Frieda, imagining all sorts of horrors for the
ignorant, unresourceful girl, in some str