"We thought diamonds was goin' to be trumps," she observed, "an' it turned out to be spades." Uncle Israel wheezed again and Mrs. Smithers smacked her lips with intense satisfaction. Mrs. Holmes was pale with anger, and, under cover of the night, Dick sneaked back to his room, shame-faced, yet happy. Claudius Tiberius still purred, sticking his claws into the bark with every evidence of pleasure. "I do not know," said Mr. Perkins, sadly, running his fingers through his mane, "whether we are obliged to take as final these vagaries of a dying man. Dear Uncle Ebeneezer could not have been sane when he penned this cruel letter. I do not believe it was his desire to have any of us go away before the usual time." Under cover of these forgiving sentiments, he pocketed all the money in the box. "Me neither," said Mrs. Dodd. "Anyhow, I'm goin' to stay. No sheeted spectre can't scare me away from a place I've always stayed in Summers, 'specially," she added, sarcastically, "when I'm remembered in the will." Mrs. Smithers clucked disagreeably and went back to the house. Uncle Israel looked after her with dismay. "Do you suppose," he queried, in falsetto, "that she'll tell the Carrs?" "Hush, Israel," replied Mrs. Dodd. "She can't tell them Carrs about our diggin' all night in the orchard, 'cause she was here herself. They didn't get no spirit communication an' they won't suspect nothin'. We'll just stay where we be an' go on 's if nothin' had happened." Indeed, this seemed the wisest plan, and, shivering with the cold, the baffled ones filed back to the Jack-o'-Lantern. "How did you get out, Israel?" whispered Mrs. Dodd, as they approached the house. The old man snickered. It was the only moment of the evening he had thoroughly enjoyed. "The same spirit that give me the letter, Belinda," he returned, pleasantly, "also give me a key. You didn't think I had no flyin' machine, did you?" "Humph" grunted Mrs. Dodd. "Spirits don't carry no keys!" At the threshold they paused, the sensitive poet quite unstrung by the night's adventure. From the depths of the Jack-o'-Lantern came a shrill, infantile cry. "Is that Ebbie," asked Mrs. Dodd, "or Rebbie?" Mrs. Holmes turned upon her with suppressed fury. "Don't you ever dare to allude to my children in that manner again," she commanded, hoarsely. "What is their names?" quavered Uncle Israel, lighting his candle. "Their names," returned Mrs. Holmes, with a vast accession of dignity, "are Gladys Gwendolen and Algernon Paul! Good night!" Just before dawn, a sheeted spectre appeared at the side of Sarah Smither's bed, and swore the trembling woman to secrecy. It was long past sunrise before the frightened handmaiden came to her senses enough to recall that the voice of the apparition had been strangely like Mrs. Dodd's. XVI Good Fortune