“Peter, what is the matter?” cried Cecily. “There’s--SOMETHING--in the house, RINGING A BELL,” said Peter, in a shaking voice. Not the Story Girl herself could have invested that “something” with more of creepy horror. We all drew close together. I felt a crinkly feeling along my back which I had never known before. If Peter had not been so manifestly frightened we might have thought he was trying to “pass a joke” on us. But such abject terror as his could not be counterfeited. “Nonsense!” said Felicity, but her voice shook. “There isn’t a bell in the house to ring. You must have imagined it, Peter. Or else Uncle Roger is trying to fool us.” “Your Uncle Roger went to Markdale right after milking,” said Peter. “He locked up the house and gave me the key. There wasn’t a soul in it then, that I’m sure of. I druv the cows to the pasture, and I got back about fifteen minutes ago. I set down on the front door steps for a moment, and all at once I heard a bell ring in the house eight times. I tell you I was skeered. I made a bolt for the orchard--and you won’t catch me going near that house till your Uncle Roger comes home.” You wouldn’t catch any of us doing it. We were almost as badly scared as Peter. There we stood in a huddled demoralized group. Oh, what an eerie place that orchard was! What shadows! What noises! What spooky swooping of bats! You COULDN’T look every way at once, and goodness only knew what might be behind you! “There CAN’T be anybody in the house,” said Felicity. “Well, here’s the key--go and see for yourself,” said Peter. Felicity had no intention of going and seeing. “I think you boys ought to go,” she said, retreating behind the defence of sex. “You ought to be braver than girls.” “But we ain’t,” said Felix candidly. “I wouldn’t be much scared of anything REAL. But a haunted house is a different thing.” “I always thought something had to be done in a place before it could be haunted,” said Cecily. “Somebody killed or something like that, you know. Nothing like that ever happened in our family. The Kings have always been respectable.” “Perhaps it is Emily King’s ghost,” whispered Felix. “She never appeared anywhere but in the orchard,” said the Story Girl. “Oh, oh, children, isn’t there something under Uncle Alec’s tree?” We peered fearfully through the gloom. There WAS something--something that wavered and fluttered--advanced--retreated-- “That’s only my old apron,” said Felicity. “I hung it there to-day when I was looking for the white hen’s nest. Oh, what shall we do? Uncle Roger may not be back for hours. I CAN’T believe there’s anything in the house.” “Maybe it’s only Peg Bowen,” suggested Dan. There was not a great deal of comfort in this. We were almost as much afraid of Peg Bowen as we would be of any spectral visitant. Peter scoffed at the idea.