“No, child—not that.” “But you’d be glad if he were dead! There, you needn’t answer. But if you were absolutely honest, you’d have to admit it.” “I’ll admit it,” said her mother, wearily. “Samuel Appleby has spoiled all our lives—is still spoiling them. He does it for his own selfish interests. He has ruined the happiness of my husband, myself, my daughter, and my prospective son-in-law. Is it any wonder that we should honestly wish he were dead? It may not sound Christian—but it is an honest expression of human nature.” “It is, Mrs. Wheeler,” and Allen’s face looked more pained than shocked. “But, all the same, we oughtn’t to talk like that.” “No, indeed,” agreed Wheeler. “Please, Maida, darling, don’t say such things. And, Sara, if you must say them, say them to me when we are alone. It’s no sort of talk for these young people’s ears.” “Why, I said it before mother did!” Maida broke out. “And I mean it! I’m at the end of my rope. If that man is to hound us and torture us all our lives, I can’t help wishing him dead.” “There, there, daughter, please don’t.” “I won’t, dad. I’ll never say it again. But I put myself on record, and if the rest of you were honest, you’d do the same thing!” “That we’d like to kill him?” asked Allen, smiling at the idea. “I didn’t say that—I said we wish him dead. If a nice, convenient stroke of lightning came his way, or——” “Maida, hush!” her father spoke sternly; “I won’t allow such talk! It isn’t like you, my child, and it isn’t——” “Isn’t good form, I s’pose!” she interrupted. “Well, I’ll let up, dads, and I am a little ashamed of myself. Mother, maybe the phantom bugler was announcing the death of old Appleby!” “Hush, Maida! What has got into you?” “I’m incorrigible, I guess——” “You are!” and Allen smiled fondly at her. “Come out for a walk in the sunshine with me, and get these awful thoughts out of your brain.” “I know I’m a criminal,” said Maida, as they walked down a garden path; “but I can’t help it. I’ve more to bear than you know of, Jeff, and you must make allowance.” “I do, sweetheart. And I know how you’re troubled, and all that, but don’t say such dreadful things. I know you don’t mean them.” “No, I don’t—at least, I don’t think I do. But I won’t say them any more. I think I lost my head——” “Forget it. You’re upset and nervous and your mother’s worry reflects itself on you. Is there really a bugler tradition?” “Not over here. There was one connected with mother’s family long ago, in England, I believe. Of course, it was just one of those old spook yarns that most old houses have over there. But mother always remembered it. She has told everybody who ever visited here about it, and I think she always expected to hear the thing. Queer, though, wasn’t it?” “Not very. It’s explainable by natural means, of course. Probably we’ll never know who it was, but it was no phantom, be sure of that.”