The Storekeeper reached behind him and turned the wick of the lamp up a little higher. The Miller slipped from his place on the counter and seated himself on the box beside the veteran. He filled and lighted his clay pipe, and began: “My gran’pap used to tell how night after night he heard the churn splashin’ down in his spring-house; an’ how he stepped out once to find out what done it. He seen the sperrit of his first wife churnin’ an’ churnin’, an’ she told him how lest some un ’ud break the spell she’d hev to----” The Chronic Loafer had glided off the counter and was rolling a keg close to the speaker. He fixed himself comfortably on it; then cried, “Turn up that there light. This dark hurts a felly’s eyes.” The Tinsmith glanced furtively behind him into the blackness beneath the counter. He pushed himself from his perch, intending to join the little knot about the stove. Hardly had he reached the floor and taken one step when he halted. “Ssh! What’s that?” The Miller dropped his pipe. The Storekeeper paled and nervously grasped the back of his chair. The Chronic Loafer arose to his feet, his upraised arms trembling visibly. The G. A. R. Man, with eyes and mouth wide open, sat up rigidly upon his keg. From the cellar beneath, low, but so distinct as to be heard above the patter of the rain and the rattle of the windows, came the sound of footsteps. It lasted but a moment, and then seemed to die away in the distance. The Chronic Loafer broke the silence. “Sights! I’m goin’. The Missus’ll be gittin’ worrit.” He hurried to the door, but as he opened it there was a blinding flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, and the whole building trembled. A gust of wind drove the rain against the windows with redoubled vigor. He slammed the door shut and returned to his keg. “Wha--what’s that?” exclaimed the G. A. R. Man. The Storekeeper shook his head mournfully. “It’s the ha’nt that give my pap so much trouble.” “A ha’nt!” cried the Loafer and the Miller, their teeth chattering. “Yes,” replied the Storekeeper, leaning his chair back on two legs. “That’s what Pap use to say it was. He seen it. I never did, but ef you uns draws up closer I’ll tell ye what he sayd about it.” Nothing loath to get as near as possible to each other the men, seated on chairs, kegs and boxes, formed a little circle about the Storekeeper, who began his story in a voice hardly above a whisper.