"No, nor they won't," Chip rattled on, as if such killing were a daily occurrence in the woods. "He's a slick 'un, they say, an' now he's got Pete's money, he'll lay low." "Worse and worse, and more of it," Uncle Joe thought. "You must 'a' had middlin' lively times up in the woods," he said. "Did yer dad kill anybody else 'sides yer mother 'n' this man?" "He didn't kill mother," Chip returned promptly; "he used to lick her, though, but she got killed in a mill, 'n' I wisht it 'ud bin him. I wouldn't 'a' bin an orfin then. Say," she added, as they entered a woods-bordered stretch of road, "did ye ever see spites here?" "Spites," he responded, now more than ever in doubt as to her sanity, "what's them?" "Why, they's just spites--things ye can't see much of 'ceptin' it's dark. Then they come crawlin' round. They's souls o' animals mostly, Old Tomah says. I've seen thousands on 'em." Uncle Joe shifted his quid, turned and eyed the girl once more. First, a wild and wofully mixed tale of murder, and then spookish things! Beyond question she had wheels, and he resolved to humor her. "Oh, yes, we see them things here now 'n' then," he said, "but it takes considerable licker to do it. We hain't had a murder, though, for quite a spell. This is a sorter peaceful neck o' woods ye're comin' to." But Chip failed to grasp his quiet humor, and all through that twenty-mile autumn day stage ride she chattered on like a magpie. He soon concluded she was sane enough, however, but the most voluble talker who ever shared his seat. "I never seen the beat o' her," he said that night at Phinney's store,--the village news agency,--"she clacked every minit from the time we started till we fetched in, an' I never callated sich goin's on ez she told about cud ever happen. Thar was murder 'n' runnin' away, 'n' she got ketched 'n' carried off 'n' fetched back, 'n' a whole lot o' resky business. She believes in ghosts, too, sorter Injun sperits, 'n' she kin swear jist ez easy ez I kin. It seems the Frisbies hev kinder 'dopted her, 'n' I guess they'll hev their hands full. She's a bright 'un, though, but sich a talker!" At Aunt Comfort's spacious, old-fashioned home, where Chip was now installed, she soon began to create the same impression. This had been Angie's former home, and her Aunt Comfort Day had been her foster-mother. This family, in addition to the new arrival, consisted of Aunt Comfort, rotund and warm-hearted; Hannah Pettibone, a well-along spinster of angular form and temper, thin to an almost painful degree, with a well-defined mustache; and a general helper on the farm, and a chore boy about Chip's age named Nezer, completed the list. Once included in this somewhat diverse group, Chip became an immediate bone of contention.