MISS BETSEY TAYLOR had a very successful drive to the "ha'nted house." She returned home with the secret curiosity of years partly satisfied. Not that Miss Betsey saw the "ghosts walk," or that anything in the least unusual took place at the "ha'nted house"; it was simply that Mrs. Preston at last unveiled to Miss Betsey Taylor all she knew of the history of the particular "John Randolph" in whom Miss Betsey had once been interested.

It happened that Miss Jenny Ann, Miss Betsey and Mrs. Preston, in driving up the road to the "ha'nted house," had met an old colored mammy coming toward them, carrying a basket on her arm and talking to herself.

She raised up one hand dramatically when she caught sight of the three women. "Stay where you is. Don't come no farder," she warned. "The house you is drawing nigher to is a house of 'ha'nts.' Ghosties walk here in the day and sleep here in the night. It am mighty onlucky to bother a ghostie."

"Why, Mammy Ellen," protested Mrs. Preston, smiling kindly at the old woman, "you don't tell me that you believe in ghosts? I thought you had too much sense."

"Child," argued the old woman, "they is some as says they is ghosts in this here house of Cain and Abel; but they is one that knows they is ghosts here." She shook her head. "I hev seen 'em. Jest you let sleepin' ghosts lie."

"We are not going to disturb them, Mammy Ellen," promised Mrs. Preston. "We are just going to drive about the old place, so that my friends, who are from the North, can see what this old, deserted estate looks like."

"That old woman once belonged to the family of John Randolph, Miss Betsey. Do you recall your speaking of him to me a few days ago?" inquired Mrs. Preston as the old colored woman marched solemnly away.

"Yes, I remember," answered Miss Betsey vaguely. "I believe I knew this same John Randolph when I was a girl."

"Then I am sorry to tell you his story, because it is a sad one," sighed Mrs. Preston. "My husband and I often talk of him. We feel, somehow, that we ought to have done something. John Randolph came back here suddenly, after spending a year or so in New York, after the close of the war. He married three or four years afterward a girl from the next county. She wasn't much of a wife; the poor thing was ill and never liked the country. She persuaded John to sell out his share in the estate to his brother James. You remember, it was the Grinstead place I showed to you on our drive to the sulphur well the other day. Well, John and his wife settled in Richmond and John tried to practise law. He wasn't much of a success. I reckon poor John did not know much but farming. He and his wife had one child, a girl. She married and died, leaving a baby for her father and mother to look after. A few years ago John's wife died, too, and the old man came back here to the old place. He didn't have any money, and I expect he didn't have any other home to go to." Mrs. Preston paused. She had driven around the haunted house, but her visitors were more interested in her story than they were in the sight of the deserted mansion.

"Then, I suppose, poor John died," added Miss Betsey sadly, her face clouding with memories; the John Randolph she had known had been so full of youth and enthusiasm.

Mrs. Preston flapped her reins. "I reckon so," she sighed. "You see, John Randolph did not have any real claim on the Grinsteads. They were his brother James's wife's people, and I suppose they were not very good to him; or it may be the old man was just sensitive. Anyway, John Randolph went away from the Grinstead place about six months ago. No word has been heard of him, so I suppose he is dead."

Miss Betsey surreptitiously wiped away a few tears for her dead romance. They were not very bitter tears. Of course, her old lover, John Randolph, was only a memory. But it was sad to hear that he had had such an unfortunate life; he might better have been less "touchy" and not have left her so abruptly. Miss Betsey's tears passed unnoticed. Miss Jenny Ann was also depressed by the story, and as for kind Mrs. Preston, she sighed deeply every five or ten minutes during the ride home.

But Miss Betsey was so quiet and unlike herself all the evening that Madge, Phyllis and Lillian decided that she must feel ill. The girls would never have believed, even if they had been told, that Miss Betsey, who was on the shady side of sixty, could possibly have been sorrowing over a lover whom she had not seen in nearly forty years. But girls do not know that the minds of older people travel backward, and that an old maid is a "girl" at heart to the longest day she lives.

Miss Taylor went up to her own room early.

Madge and Phyllis were undressing to jump into bed, when a knock on their door startled them.

"Girls!" a voice cried in trembling tones."It's poor Miss Betsey!" exclaimed Phil. "I'll wager she is ill or something, she has been acting so queerly all evening." Phil ran to open their door.

"Take me in, children," whispered Miss Betsey, shaking her head. "Sh-sh! Don't make a noise; something so strange has happened. I couldn't wait until morning to tell you."

Miss Betsey dropped into a chair by the window. She was minus her side curls and she had her still jet-black hair screwed up into a tight knot at the back of her head. But in honor of her present frivolous life as one of the houseboat girls she wore a bright red flannelette dressing gown.

Madge looked at Miss Betsey, then choked and began to cough violently to conceal her laughter.

"Don't make that noise, Madge; laugh out-right if you think I am funny," whispered Miss Betsey, instead of giving the little captain the lecture she deserved. "I don't want any one to know I am in here with you. I've got something so strange to show you."

Miss Betsey slipped her hand into the capacious pocket of her dressing gown. She drew out a bright red cotton handkerchief, knotted and tied together into a dirty ball.

"What on earth have you there, Miss Betsey?" asked Phil. "I should be afraid to touch such a dreadful looking handkerchief."

Miss Betsey fingered it gingerly. She seemed to be trying to open it.

Madge picked up a pair of curling tongs and caught the handkerchief by one end. "Do let me throw it out of the window for you, Miss Betsey!" she urged.

Miss Betsey gave a little shriek of protest. But Madge and Phil were staring in Miss Betsey's lap, their eyes wide with amazement. Into the old lady's lap had fallen, from the dirty cotton handkerchief, all her stolen jewelry.

"Where did it come from, Miss Betsey?" demanded Phil.

"From under my pillow," answered Miss Betsey.

"Then the thief must have put it back!" exclaimed Madge impetuously.

Miss Betsey nodded emphatically. "Yes, of course he did. But who and why and how? My money has not been returned. Why should the burglar take pity on me and return me my poor little jewelry? It is of some value. And now Mr. Preston will have a much easier time in tracing the thief, with this handkerchief as a clue to go on. I can't help suspecting one of the servants, for, girls," Miss Betsey lowered her voice solemnly, "I was in my own room all the morning. I made my bed, as it has been my custom to do every day of my life, and when I made my bed there was certainly no red cotton pocket handkerchief with my jewelry in it under my pillow. I have been out this afternoon, but you children have been up on this floor with Eleanor. Now think. Did you hear anything or see any one enter my room at any time?"

Madge and Phyllis stood still, thinking deeply. Suddenly Madge's cheeks flamed. "David!" exclaimed Phil Alden involuntarily at the same moment.

"David?" Miss Betsey's face was a study. She turned almost as red as Madge. "You don't mean that you girls saw David Brewster enter my room this afternoon? No, no, children, it couldn't be! The boy has a bad disposition, I know. He is surly and cross. But then the lad has had no training of any kind. He has had everything against him. He seemed to be quite honest when he lived with me. But, but——" Miss Betsey hesitated. "Of course, David will tell me why he came into my room this afternoon. He probably went there on an errand."

Phyllis Alden shook her head regretfully. She said nothing.

"You don't suspect David, do you, Phil?" questioned Madge."I don't know what to think," remarked Phil judicially. "Of course, I don't really suspect David. No one has the right to suspect him without any real proof. But it does seem queer to me that Miss Betsey lost her money first on the houseboat and then here. What is your honest opinion?"

To save her life, Madge could not but think of David's mysterious trip to the Preston house while the barn was burning on the night of the robbery. Still, she did not answer Phyllis.

"Tell us what you think, Madge," insisted Miss Betsey. "Why, I was beginning to feel proud of the boy, his manners have improved so much since he came on this trip. And I have been saying to myself that if I had believed in the boy and tried to help him, as you have done, perhaps he might have been less surly years ago. Some day I may tell you children more of the lad's history."

"Miss Betsey," Madge's voice was very grave, "to tell you the truth, I don't know what to think. I know that there are some things that point toward David's being a thief. But, just the same, I don't believe he is one. You know I have always been sorry for David, Miss Betsey, ever since he pulled me out from under Dr. Alden's buggy, when I was trying to spoil your lawn, as the donkeys did Miss Betsey Trotter's in 'David Copperfield.' And somehow"—she paused reflectively—"I believe in him still. I know that David Brewster wouldn't steal! It may be my intuition that makes me say this; I have no real reason for thinking it. I trust David, trust him fully. I am sure that he is absolutely honest."

Miss Betsey patted Madge's auburn head almost affectionately. She felt nearly fond of her for her loyalty toward David. "We won't, any of us, speak of suspecting any one, children," she concluded. "You are not to mention having seen David Brewster come out of my room. I would not have suspicion rest on the boy wrongfully for a great deal; it might ruin his whole future life. But we must be very careful; say nothing and watch! There are sure to be other developments that will point toward the real thief. If we do see or hear anything else that seems suspicious, then we owe it to Mr. and Mrs. Preston to take them into our confidence. We must remember that their property was stolen as well as mine, and that they have taken us into their household and treated us as members of their own family. Much as I may wish it," Miss Betsey lowered her voice solemnly, "I feel that we have no right to shield David if he is at fault. But"—Miss Taylor's voice was even more serious—"it would be a far more wicked thing for us to accuse the boy if he is guiltless."

Miss Betsey rose to go. In spite of her funny, old maid appearance and her usually severe manner toward Madge, that young woman flung her arms around the spinster's neck and hugged her warmly. "You are perfectly splendid, Miss Betsey," she whispered. As Miss Betsey tip-toed cautiously out of the room, Madge blew a kiss toward her retreating back. "You can just lecture me, after this, as much as you like. And I promise, I promise"—Madge hesitated—"I promise not to like it a bit better than I do now," she ended truthfully.

Then Madge turned to Phil, her rock of refuge. "Phyllis Alden, if David Brewster stole from Miss Betsey or Mrs. Preston, I don't care what excuse he has, I shall never forgive him, or myself for bringing him on this boat trip. Oh, dear me! I wish dear old Tom were here! I would ask Tom to ask David to clear things up. I suppose if I try to talk to David Brewster, he will bite my head off."

"Come to bed this minute, Madge, and don't talk to anybody about anything until you know more," commanded Phil stolidly. And Madge obeyed.