A dozen explanations, like so many birds, fluttered through Virginia's mind. Before her rose her world of yesterday, and a sudden apology leapt to her lips. She turned on her father a wondering, sober glance. "I've never said 'sir' or 'ma'am' before in all my life--never!" she remarked. "So you're afraid of me?" "A little," she sighed. "Ah, don't be, child! I'm your father. Will you keep that in mind?" "I'll try to; I will, sure." Mr. Singleton shifted uneasily, as if in pain. "This money is coming to you when you're eighteen years old," explained Mr. Singleton. "My dying will throw you into an ocean of difficulties. I guess the only service I've ever done you has been to keep your Uncle Jordan from you." "Matty told me about him, too," she offered. "He's a damn bad duffer, isn't he, mister?" "Yes, and I'm going to ask you not to call me 'mister,' either. Look here!... I'm your father! Can't anything get that into your head?" "I keep forgetting it," answered the girl sadly. "And you're so big and thin and different from any man I know. You look as weak as a--as a cat." She stretched forth her two strong legs, but sank back. "Yes, your Uncle Jordan is bad," proceeded Singleton, presently, "bad enough to want to get us both out of the way, and he wouldn't find much of an obstacle in you." A clammy chill clutched at Virginia's heart like tightening fingers. The import of his words burned deep within her. She got to her feet--but reseated herself at once at a wave of her father's hand. The thought of death always had a sobering effect upon her--it filled her with longing, yet dread. The beautiful young mother, whose picture hung in the best room, and whose eyes followed her in every direction, was dead. Matty had told her many times just how her mother had gone, and how often the gentle spirit had returned to hover over the beloved young daughter. Now the memory of it was enhanced by the roar of the wind and the dismal moaning of the tall pines. Virginia firmly believed that her mother, among other unearthly visitants, walked in the night when the blizzard kept up its incessant beating. She also believed that the sound through the pines--that roaring, ever-changing, unhuman sound--was not of the wind's making. It was voices,--spirit voices,--voices of the dead, of those who had gone down into the small cemetery beyond the road. Only the day before Matty had told her how, one night, a tall, wandering white thing had walked in silence across the fields to Jonathan Woggles' house. In the story, Jonathan's grandpa was about to pass away. The glittering spirit stalked around and around the house, waiting for the old man's soul. She was about to relate the tale when her father repeated: "Your uncle is bad enough to want us out of the way." The shuddering chill again possessed her. She was torn between horror and eagerness--horror of what might be and eagerness to escape it. "But he can't get us out, can he?" she questioned.