“Can I—can I sit in here with you, Miss Neily, just a minute?” Lizzie’s voice was plaintive. “I’ve been sitting out in the kitchen watching that Jap read his funny newspaper the wrong way and listening for ghosts till I’m nearly crazy!” “Why, certainly, Lizzie,” said Miss Cornelia primly. “Though,” she added doubtfully, “I really shouldn’t pamper your absurd fears, I suppose, but—” “Oh, please, Miss Neily!” “Very well,” said Miss Cornelia brightly. “You can sit here, Lizzie—and help me work the ouija-board. That will take your mind off listening for things!” Lizzie groaned. “You know I’d rather be shot than touch that uncanny ouijie!” she said dolefully. “It gives me the creeps every time I put my hands on it!” “Well, of course, if you’d rather sit in the kitchen, Lizzie—” “Oh, give me the ouijie!” said Lizzie in tones of heartbreak. “I’d rather be shot _and_ stabbed than stay in the kitchen any more.” “Very well,” said Miss Cornelia, “it’s your own decision, Lizzie—remember that.” Her needles clicked on. “I’ll just finish this row before we start,” she said. “You might call up the light company in the meantime, Lizzie—there seems to be a storm coming up and I want to find out if they intend to turn out the lights tonight as they did last night. Tell them I find it most inconvenient to be left without light that way.” “It’s worse than inconvenient,” muttered Lizzie, “it’s criminal—that’s what it is—turning off all the lights in a haunted house, like this one. As if spooks wasn’t bad enough with the lights _on_—” “Lizzie!” “Yes, Miss Neily—I wasn’t going to say another word.” She went to the telephone. Miss Cornelia knitted on—knit two—purl two— In spite of her experiments with the ouija-board she didn’t believe in ghosts—and yet—there were things one couldn’t explain by logic. Was there something like that in this house—a shadow walking the corridors—a vague shape of evil, drifting like mist from room to room, till its cold breath whispered on one’s back and—there! She had ruined her knitting, the last two rows would have to be ripped out. That came of mooning about ghosts like a ninny. She put down the knitting with an exasperated little gesture. Lizzie had just finished her telephoning and was hanging up the receiver. “Well, Lizzie?” “Yes’m,” said the latter, glaring at the phone. “That’s what he says—they turned off the lights last night because there was a storm threatening. He says it burns out their fuses if they leave ’em on in a storm.” A louder roll of thunder punctuated her words. “There!” said Lizzie. “They’ll be going off again to-night.” She took an uncertain step toward the French windows. “Humph!” said Miss Cornelia, “I hope it will be a dry summer.” Her hands tightened on each other. Darkness—darkness inside this house of whispers to match with the darkness outside! She forced herself to speak in a normal voice. “Ask Billy to bring some candles, Lizzie—and have them ready.”