e trellis, I
saw two things which caused me to feel that the horrors of the night
were not all imaginary.

Just outside the back bedroom door was a damp place, as if that part of
the floor had been newly washed; and when, goaded by curiosity, I peeped
through the keyhole of the haunted chamber, my eye distinctly saw an
open razor lying on a dusty table.

My vision was limited to that one object, but it was quite enough, and I
went up the hill brooding darkly over the secret hidden in my breast. I
longed to tell some one, but was ashamed, and, when asked why so pale
and absent-minded, I answered, with a gloomy smile,--

"It is the clams."

All day I hid my sufferings pretty well, but as night approached, and I
thought of another lonely vigil in the haunted cottage, my heart began
to fail, and, when we sat telling stories in the dusk, a brilliant idea
came into my head.

I would relate my ghost story, and rouse the curiosity of the listeners
to such a pitch that some of them would offer to share my quarters, in
hopes of seeing the spirit of the restless Tucker.

Cheered by this delusive fancy, when my turn came I made a thrilling
tale of the night's adventures, and, having worked my audience up to a
flattering state of excitement, paused for applause.

It came in a most unexpected form, however, for Mrs. Grant burst out
laughing, and the two boys, Johnny and Joe, rolled off the piazza in
convulsions of merriment.

Much disgusted at this unseemly demonstration, I demanded the cause of
it, and involuntarily joined in the general shout when Mrs. Grant
demolished my ghost by informing me that Bezee Tucker lived, died in,
and haunted the tumble-down house at the _other_ end of the lane.

"Then who or what made those mysterious noises?" I asked, relieved but
rather nettled at the downfall of my romance.

"My brother Seth," replied Mrs. Grant, still laughing. "I thought you
might be afraid to be there all alone, so he slipped into the bedroom,
and I forgot to tell you. He's a powerful snorer, and that's one of the
awful sounds. The other was the dripping of salt water; for you wanted
some, and the girl got it in a leaky pail. Seth wiped up the slops when
he came out early in the morning."

I said nothing about the keyhole view of the harmless razor, but,
feeling that I did deserve some credit for my heroic reception of the
burglar, I mildly asked if it was the custom in York for men as well as
turkeys to roost in t