hy. There was nothing
supernatural in the mysterious sounds.

And it seemed to 'Phemie as though the steps had retreated toward the east
ell--the other wing of the rambling old farmhouse.

What was it Lucas Pritchett had said about his father using the
cellar under the east wing at Hillcrest? Yet, what would bring Cyrus
Pritchett--or anybody else--up here to the vinegar cellar at ten
o'clock at night?

'Phemie grew braver by the minute. She determined to run this mystery
down, and she was quite sure that it would prove to be a very human and
commonplace mystery after all. She opened the door between the kitchen and
the dark side hall by which they had first entered the old house that
afternoon. Although she had never been this way, 'Phemie knew that out of
this square hall opened a long passage leading through the main house
to the east wing.

And she easily found the door giving entrance to this corridor. But she
hesitated when she stood on the threshold, and almost gave up the venture
altogether.

A cold, damp breath rushed out at her--just as though some huge,
subterranean monster lay in wait for her in the darkness--a darkness
so dense that the feeble ray of her candle could only penetrate it a
very little way.

"How foolish of me!" murmured 'Phemie. "I've come so far--I guess I can
see it through."

She certainly did not believe that the steps and voice were inside the
house. The passage was empty before her. She refused to let the rising
tide of trepidation wash away her self-control.

So she stepped in boldly, holding the candle high, and proceeded along
the corridor. There were tightly closed doors on either side, and behind
each door was a mystery. She could not help but feel this. Every door was
a menace to her peace of mind.

"But I will _not_ think of such things," she told herself. "I know if
there _is_ anybody about the house, it is a very human somebody
indeed--and he has no business here at this time of night!"

In her bed-slippers 'Phemie's light feet fell softly on the frayed
oilcloth that carpeted the long hall. Dimly she saw two or three heavy,
ancient pieces of furniture standing about--a tall escritoire with
three paneled mirrors, which reflected herself and her candle dimly; a
long davenport with hungry arms and the dust lying thick upon its
haircloth upholstery; chairs with highly ornate spindles in their
perfectly "straight up and down," uncomfortable-looking backs.

She came to t