Mysterious looks began to pass from one to another of the country folks. Why was the quiet old man buying all those things? What was he going to do with them? Would he buy the house and farm? Had he any interest in the poor old woman who was watching him now with straining nerves and intense interest? After the sale of the furniture the auctioneer said: “We will next offer the house and farm. The old woman will show you the deeds. There is no encumbrance on the property. We will stop the sale for an hour. Then you will be ready for the finish. Stranger, where shall we put all these things that you have been buying?” “I’ll tell you later; I’m not ready to answer yet. Never mind me—don’t crowd around me, friends. I’m an honest man. Go and take your lunches under the trees.” There was a jingle of bells on the clear bright air. The bread-cart man was coming. The people bought gingerbread and bunns, and lounged under the cool trees in a spot of ground where stood a large and a small grindstone, and overhead hung scythes and corn-knives. There was a buzzing of voices, and talking in a suppressed tone, and great inquiry about the stranger who simply called himself “Cash,” and who was purchasing everything. The old woman now tried to find out the secret of the stranger’s interest in these things. “You and I must be about the same age,” she said. “Yes,” said the old man; “the same suns have lighted us both. They used to tell a ghost-story about the chambers here. My girl has often asked me about them. Did you ever see anything strange upstairs?” “No; but I found, just before the auction, some papers hidden behind a board. They read mighty curious, and were signed with what the writing said was blood.” “You don’t say?” said the old man, starting. “What were they?” “It was a covenant that some one had made with the Lord. I think that it was Martin’s. Seemed as though his father asked him to make it. It promised many things. There was one thing in it that made me write to him. Whoever made it promised to be faithful to _me_. The signature was faded. It was made on the day that the writer was propounded for church.” Martin Marlowe’s face fell. Had he been true to that covenant that he remembered so vividly? “Say, stranger,” said old Susan, “I hope you will excuse me; but what may your name be?” “Never mind my family history now. I will tell you later more about myself. What was the story about the haunted chamber? Tell it to my girl here.” “About Rachel, who raised red peppers, and used to appear with a calash over her head?”