do yet, or not," replied 'Phemie. "Let's wait
and see."

'Phemie was drowsy, yet somehow she couldn't fall asleep. Usually she
was the first of the two to do so; but to-night Lyddy's deeper breathing
assured the younger sister that she alone was awake in all the great,
empty house.

And Sairy Pritchett had intimated that Hillcrest was haunted!

Now, 'Phemie didn't believe in ghosts--not at all. She would have been
very angry had anyone suggested that there was a superstitious strain in
her character.

Yet, as she lay there beside her sleeping sister she began to hear the
strangest sounds.

It wasn't the wind; nor was it the low crackling of the fire on the
kitchen hearth. She could easily distinguish both of these. Soon, too,
she made out the insistent gnawing of a rat behind the mopboard. That
long-tailed gentleman seemed determined to get in; but 'Phemie was not
afraid of rats. At least, not so long as they kept out of sight.

But there were other noises. Once 'Phemie had all but lost herself in
sleep when--it seemed--a voice spoke directly in her ear. It said:

"_I thought I'd find you here._"

'Phemie started into a sitting posture in the rustling straw bed. She
listened hard.

The voice was silent. The fire was still. The wind had suddenly dropped.
Even the rat had ceased his sapping and mining operations.

What had frightened Mr. Rat away?

He, too, must have heard that mysterious voice. 'Phemie could not believe
she had imagined it.

Was that a rustling sound? Were those distant steps she heard--somewhere
in the house? Did she hear a door creak?

She slipped out of bed, drew on her woollen wrapper and thrust her feet
into slippers. She saw that it was bright moonlight outside, for a pencil
of light came through a chink in one of the shutters.

Lyddy slept as calmly as a baby--and 'Phemie was glad. Of course, it
was all foolishness about ghosts; but she believed there was somebody
prowling about the house.

She lit the candle and after the flame had sputtered a bit and began to
burn clear she carried it into the kitchen. Their little round alarm clock
ticked modestly on the dresser. It was not yet ten o'clock.

"Not the 'witching hour of midnight, when graveyards yawn'--and other
people do, too," thought 'Phemie, giggling nervously. "Surely ghosts
cannot be walking yet."

Indeed, she was quite assured that what she had heard--both the voice
and the footsteps--were very much of the earth, eart