It was the first of November, the day when the reports were to be given out!

Marjorie had no fears for her own marks now, she knew that she would pass creditably. But she glanced sympathetically towards Alice Endicott, and Daisy Gravers, those freshmen who were so anxiously waiting for the deciding factor.

She recalled the parallel situation, early last spring, when she had awaited her own report with such trepidation. And then to have been disappointed—through Ruth's cruel dishonesty! She hoped with all her heart that there was no such disappointment in store for Alice.

Miss Allen's secretary read the list, and the girls came forward to receive their reports, stumbling back to their seats in their haste to examine them. Marjorie found herself calm when her own name was called, but actually trembling when Alice answered the summons.

Miss Phillips had promised to hike to a certain so-called "haunted house" in the vicinity, taking a picnic supper,—in celebration of the new Scouts. The troop had agreed to meet for a moment at the rear of the assembly room to learn who these girls would be.

But Marjorie did not need to wait for the meeting to know the news from Alice. The girl's expression of bitter mortification told the story only too plainly! Marjorie dropped her eyes; she could not bear to see her cry.

And then an overwhelming feeling of remorse took possession of her. Perhaps it was her fault! Perhaps, if instead of wasting time and thoughts upon good-for-nothing Frieda Hammer, she had helped Alice in her studies, she might now be a Scout! And yet Marjorie was sincere enough with herself to know that she did not, even now, care so much about Alice or her success, as she did about Frieda. She realized, too, that although a week had gone by, she was still hoping that the runaway would return. Every day she went to the library to read the advertisements and personals in the newspapers in search of a clue. And every day, too, she read about the crimes, fearful lest she might discover Frieda's name, or a description of her, among the accounts.

Bringing her thoughts back with an effort to Alice Endicott and the Scouts she hurried over, at the dismissal of the assembly, to the place where the freshman was standing.

"What branch did you fail in, Alice?" she asked, in the most matter-of-fact tone she could assume. She knew that here in public was no place for sympathy.

"Chemistry!" answered Alice, with a brave effort to suppress a sob.

"Chemistry?" repeated Marjorie. "But I don't understand—I thought you made ninety-five in that test!"

"I did; but I cut three afternoon lab periods for hockey!"

Marjorie laughed in relief. "Why, child, you can easily make that up! In less than a week you'll be a Scout! Is everything else all right?"

"Apparently."

Immensely cheered by Marjorie's words and manner, Alice proclaimed herself ready to join the Girl Scouts at the other end of the room. Here they encountered wild hilarity. Everybody was congratulating the new girls. Mae VanHorn, Florence Evans, Daisy Gravers, and Barbara Hill had all made the required mark.

Alice, now quite calm and self-controlled, told her story, to which Marjorie added her own interpretation.

"But you'll miss the hike!" exclaimed Florence.

"Oh, are you going right away?" asked Alice, dolefully.

"This very afternoon!" replied Miss Phillips. "I'm sorry, Alice, but the arrangements are all made. Anyhow, we'll soon have another!"

The leaves were falling, and the air was quite sharp; the Scouts wore heavy sweaters and woolen caps to protect them from the cold.

"We'll look for nuts," said Miss Phillips. "Remember our lesson on edible plants?"

"Yes, indeed!" they all cried. "But you didn't tell us anything about nuts."

"We'll make it a game," answered the Captain. "Each girl who finds a new variety will get a point. Whoever has the greatest number of points by the time we reach the haunted house, wins!"

"How are we to know the haunted house, Captain?" asked Doris. "I've never seen it. Is there a story about it?"

"There is really no way of telling that the house is haunted, Doris; it looks like any other house, except that it is larger, and was once upon a time much finer than any of the other houses for miles around. I have seen it on a number of occasions, and I have heard the legend that is still told about it; but I've never been inside, so I'm rather curious to see what it's like. That's why I suggested that we have our suppers there."

"But does anyone live there?" asked Lily.

"No," replied Miss Phillips; "it has not been occupied for years and years—not since anybody around this locality can remember. Some of the uneducated people hereabouts still believe it is haunted, I understand; but it is rather unreasonable to suppose that any of the more cultured ones take any stock in the old story. While the fact that it was supposed to be haunted may have kept people from living in it a good many years ago, I think the real reason it is vacant nowadays is because it is so large that it would require a fortune to fix it up—it never seems to have had any care taken of it—and another fortune to keep it going after it had been made habitable. I believe it is still owned by the heirs of the original owner, who live in England, and that the estate is looked after by a firm in Philadelphia, which rents the ground to the farmers. Why, a few years ago, I passed by the house often, and after I had heard the legend, I determined to go inside, but I could never get up enough courage."

"Did you use to live around here, Captain?" asked Marjorie.

"That was when I was a student at Miss Allen's," answered Miss Phillips.

"A student at Miss Allen's?" echoed the girls, in surprise.

"I never knew that," said Marjorie. "You never told us before, Captain," she added reproachfully.

"Didn't I?" laughed their leader. "Well, I did go to Miss Allen's; and I liked it so well that I did not want to leave; so when I finished college, I went back as teacher."

"No wonder you seem so much like one of us," remarked Marjorie.

"Do I?" said the other, rather flattered by the suggestion, in the girl's remark, of the place she held in their affections. "Perhaps that is because I feel like one of you."

"Captain, won't you tell us the story of the haunted house?" begged Doris, who, while she was the most timid girl among them, was always the most eager to hear about ghosts, as if she really enjoyed the creepy feeling that it gave her.

"Oh, it's too long to tell now, Doris. But I may tell you some other time; perhaps if I told you now, some of you would not want to visit the place."

"Captain! I've got a chestnut!" cried Ruth, holding up a small, familiar nut.

"Sure enough—there's the tree! Let's stop here a minute, and all get some."

Most of the girls succeeded in gathering a handful, before they started on. They proceeded at a leisurely pace, pausing now and then to hunt for nuts or to examine other objects of interest to the student of nature.

"Why, there are some birds, and they're not sparrows, either!" said Daisy Gravers, indicating several slate-colored birds about the size of English sparrows. "I didn't know there were any other winter birds around here!"

"They are Juncos, or Snowbirds," explained the Captain. "They are a winter bird with us, and as soon as the warm weather comes they will fly north. Don't forget to put them down in your notebooks, girls."

They had now reached the outskirts of the woods, through which they had been walking for some time, and Miss Phillips called a halt and suggested that they count their nuts. Ruth, who had been the most diligent searcher, won the game, having found a greater number of varieties than any of the other girls. The Scout Captain told them something about each variety and the tree upon which it grew, before they continued their walk.

"Only a short distance along this road, and we reach the haunted house," said Miss Phillips.

The girls walked closer around her. They had emerged into open country, and were climbing a winding road which extended before them uphill; on their left the land descended gradually to a valley below them, where in the distance, they could see the scattered houses nestled among the fields of fertile farm-land.

"The nearest village is about a mile down the valley," the Captain informed them. "When the haunted house was built it was the farthest away from the village, but since that time a number of others have sprung up all around here."

Mounting to the top of the hill, they found that the road, instead of dipping suddenly down again, was level; and that to the right of it there started a high stone wall which followed the irregularities of the road for a considerable distance. It was covered with lichen and moss, and showed gaps here and there where the mortar had crumbled away and the stones fallen in a heap upon the ground; while in other places, the tangled growth of ivy vines almost entirely obscured the stonework.

The Scouts kept to the road until they came to a break in the wall which formed the gateway. Wide open and sagging inward, two massive gates of iron grill-work had rusted and settled upon their hinges until they were firmly imbedded and immovable in the ground. The girls stopped and were examining the intricacy and beauty of the design in the wrought iron-work, when an old woman came hobbling along the road towards them. Doris shivered; in fact, all of the girls trembled in spite of themselves: for the creature, thin, tattered, and old, reminded them of a ghost herself.

"I wouldn't go in there, if I was you girls," she warned them, holding up her bony hand. "There was a strange-lookin' figer there last week or so! Nobody seen her come, and nobody seen her go—only once or twice some of us that lives near-by saw her through the winder. Some said she were a human, out of her mind, some says she were a spirit—only but for the boat she brung with her, and went away in again!"

"The boat!" repeated Marjorie, breathlessly. "Was it a canoe?"

But the old woman shook her head; she did not know any distinction among varieties of boats.

"She must 'a come by the stream at the back of the house, and vanished the same way," muttered the stranger; "but whoever she was, she wan't no good! What with her, and the old ghost that some says shrieks around the house o' nights nobody'd get me inside! I wish you wouldn't go in!"

"Oh, nothing will hurt us," said Miss Phillips, gently. "We want some place that is protected from the wind where we can eat our supper."

"It was Frieda! I know it was Frieda!" cried Marjorie, after the old woman had left them.

"Well, what if it was?" remarked Ruth. "You'll never see your canoe again, so there's no use of your getting so excited."

"Probably not," assented Marjorie, making a desperate effort to calm herself. For Ruth could never understand what the thing meant to her. Nevertheless, she was encouraged to have this much information about the girl.

Close together, and keyed up with excitement, they advanced eagerly along the lane leading to the house, which they could see about a hundred yards away, gray-white through the grove of tall trees which surrounded it. And as they drew nearer their agitation seemed to become intensified, as if they were about to discover—they knew not what!

The house itself was a perfect example of old Colonial mansion, with its wide, hospitable doorway before which tall columns supported a balcony. Its exterior, despite the appearance of age and decay that was everywhere apparent, was still impressive by reason of its great beauty of design.

Standing among the rank weeds which grew waist high about the place, they gazed in awe at the walls which once were white, but now were streaked and weather stained; at the windows, whose broken panes admitted the rain or the sunshine, and from which the shutters were sagging or had fallen completely away; at the shingles of the roof, violet-toned and curling up; and at the nests the birds had built in the chimneys and eaves.

As Miss Phillips stepped upon the low porch, the rotting boards bent beneath her weight. Trying the knob of the massive door, she found it locked.

"I guess we'll have to get in some other way," she said. "Let's walk around and investigate."

They followed her around to the back, where through the trees they caught sight of the glistening water of the stream. But here also the doors were locked, and not wishing to effect an entrance through a window if a door were available, they passed around to the left wing. Here they mounted the broad piazza, and Ruth turned the knob of the door, which opened. She entered boldly, while the rest of the girls followed more cautiously behind her. They were in a large room, well lighted by its many windows. A damp, musty odor pervaded the place.

"This was evidently the conservatory," remarked the Captain. "Let's look farther."

They explored room after room, holding their breath as they entered each one, as if they were about to discover something strange and terrifying there. But there was nothing but dust and cobwebs to greet their eyes. They went about opening doors, investigating bedrooms, peering into closets; but they could find nothing interesting or exciting—not the slightest vestige of a ghost.

"I guess this ghost only walks at night," said Lily,—"or at certain seasons of the year."

"It certainly looks that way, doesn't it?" agreed Doris, grown quite brave.

Up to this time, not one girl had actually admitted to herself that she did not expect to find a ghost; and none could tell from the Captain's expression what she thought of it; but now they were positive that they did not believe in ghosts—the idea was too preposterous—especially when Lily, upon opening a closet-door, exposed an old wig-form which lay on the shelf, and which caused them great amusement.

"I dare say the people who lived here wore artificial wigs, both men and women," commented Miss Phillips; "it was about that period."

If there ever was a ghost, it was one which left no traces; and the girls became more at ease in this atmosphere of emptiness. They did, however, have one brief moment of panic. They had all climbed the stairs to the third floor and had paused upon the landing, undecided as to which way they should go first, when a sharp whirring or rustling was heard in the room nearest them.

For an instant they all stood perfectly still, paralyzed by fright. Then Miss Phillips, with a quick step forward, flung open the door. This act started the rustling again; and through the open doorway they could see that it was nothing but a swallow which had in some way become imprisoned there. Marjorie caught it in her hand, where it lay palpitating distressedly; and thrusting her arm through a broken pane of glass, allowed the creature to escape.

The short autumn day was drawing to a close, and the chillness of the damp, musty atmosphere was beginning to affect the girls unpleasantly. The sight of another fireplace—there seemed to be one in every room—recalled Miss Phillips's thoughts to practical things.

"Let's go down to that big room," she suggested, "and prepare our supper."

In fifteen minutes a bright fire was going and the kettle boiling cheerily. The girls were so busy hurrying to and fro in preparation of the meal that they had forgotten the ghost.

It was only after they were seated on the floor, and had time to look around, that Marjorie recalled the situation to their minds by remarking,

"Can you imagine Frieda Hammer staying here all night long by herself?"

The girls shuddered at the suggestion.

"Wouldn't it be great if we could trace her?" said Edith, after a moment's silence. "I hate to think of her all alone—with no protection."

"Yes," answered Miss Phillips, "though I haven't said much about the matter, the girl has been constantly in my mind. And I wanted to tell you that I have written to a friend of mine, a woman who is a private detective, and asked her to look into the matter. She would, of course, make nothing public, but would only try to bring Frieda back here, or send her home.

"But I have been thinking that perhaps some of you girls might have a plan, so I am going to offer a medal of merit to any Scout who locates her. During Thanksgiving—well, I will leave it to you! But we simply must find Frieda!"

The fire had died down to the coals, and the girls grew silent as they gazed dreamily at the pictures their imaginations invented. It was Doris who spoke first.

"Now is a good time for the story, Captain. Please tell us!" she pleaded.

Miss Phillips hesitated, glancing keenly at the eager faces of the girls around her, who now seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed. Then she looked at her watch; it was not quite six o'clock. There would still be time; but she hesitated to tell a ghost-story in the same house—in the very room!—where the ghost was supposed to appear. It was the girls' own tranquil manner that decided her.

"When I was a freshman at Miss Allen's," she began, "I roomed with a sophomore whose home was not far from here. Several times I went with her to spend week-ends with her parents. On one of these occasions, after we had finished dinner and were comfortably seated around the open fire, her grandfather—a very old man with snow-white hair—was talking of his boyhood in this neighborhood. Even then this house was believed haunted, but the story was better known than it is now, when there are few living who could tell the details. It was my good fortune to hear it from his own lips, just as his grandfather had told him.

"His grandfather, he said, was a frequent guest here in the old days. The man who built this house came over from England, it was said, to escape scandal. Very wealthy, handsome, and of noble birth, to all appearances he was a gentleman, having a very gracious way about him; but in reality he was wayward, headstrong, and dissipated. He entertained lavishly, and his parties were the talk of the countryside—especially the dress-ball which he gave every New Year's Eve, starting at midnight and continuing throughout the next day and night. It was after one of these New Year's parties, which was particularly riotous, that he disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. Friends who called at the house several days after the event found that the servants and the furniture had vanished, no one knew whither, and the house completely empty. Naturally, this gave rise to much speculation on the part of the townsfolk, who invented many stories; some said that he had repented of his evil ways and fled into retirement; others that the devil had carried him off for a companion in wickedness.

"Meanwhile, the house remained deserted, and decay set in. It was not until the following New Year's Eve that it was seen occupied again; then, two men who were returning late from a revel took a short-cut through the garden in front of the house. The moon, flooding the house with a pale light, showed shadows passing and repassing before the windows of the reception hall. The watchers clutched at each other in sudden fear.

"'This is the anniversary!' said one, in a hoarse whisper; and they went home to talk it over.

"They agreed to say nothing about it; but when the next night still another saw the same occurrence, they made the story known. That was the beginning of the ghost legend. And while the place continued deserted and silent at all other times, year after year on the anniversary of the great ball, some late reveler was sure to report tales of strange doings there. It formed a fine topic of discussion on a winter evening at the inn, when the wind outside howled about the four corners.

"Now there were those who believed in these old wives' tales, and those who did not; and numbered among the scoffers was one Simon Some-body-or-other, whom the village folk called Simple Simon, partly because of his foolish appearance, and partly because of his great love for pies. Simon was the village fiddler—in fact, he had never been known to do anything else—and was in great demand at all the feasts and dances about the countryside. His awkward, angular form was a familiar sight at all such festivities, where he could be found in a corner by himself, out of the way, his head cocked to one side, eyes gazing up at the ceiling, and an idiotic smile on his face, fiddling as if his life depended on it. If the dancers had been as tireless as Simon, they would never have stopped to rest, for he ran on from one tune to another without the slightest intermission; indeed, the only times he paused at all would come right in the middle of the piece, and the dancers would wait, stranded in the center of the floor, while he raised the mug of ale which always stood well filled at his elbow; for they never allowed him to go thirsty. This eccentricity they overlooked, because Simon was himself so obliging.

"One night in the inn-parlor, three gossips, heads together and elbows on the table, were discussing the haunted house. Simon joined them, scoffing as usual.

"'I tell you what I'll do,' said one. 'You sleep the night there, this coming New Year's Eve, and I'll buy you a keg of the best ale in this cellar!'

"Simon could only gasp at this proposal; but the magnificence of the reward was too much for him. 'Done!' he cried; and without considering the consequences, agreed to pass a night among the ghosts. The only requirement was that he should go to the house before midnight, and remain there until sunrise.

"The weeks passed, and the wager was apparently forgotten; at least, Simon hoped that it was, for he had repented his rashness. But it was not forgotten; when the time drew near, he was reminded of it, and became more apprehensive. Were those stories true? He doubted. Only at night, as he lay in bed sleepless, he felt a peculiar sinking sensation within him. It was noticed that he became pale and worn, was quieter than usual, and played more out of tune; and he even seemed to be losing his appetite for pies.

"But none of these things let him off; and when the fateful evening came, Simon, with his beloved fiddle tucked beneath his arm for companionship, and a lantern, appeared at the inn. They wished him good luck and pleasant dreams, doubting nevertheless that he would have either; and the landlord, a kindly soul, slipped a cold snack and a jug of his best ale into his hand.

"Outside he paused to look back upon the cheery comfort of the inn-parlor. Well, there was nothing now but to go ahead with it, he reflected; and with a heavy heart, he turned his steps in the direction of the haunted house.

"Though the moon had not yet risen, there was sufficient light from the stars for him to see his way. It was strange, he thought, how familiar objects which he had never particularly noted before, now had a friendly look, with the whiteness of the frost upon them. Simon walked fast, as if to keep up both his circulation and his courage, and his step sounded crisply upon the hard dirt road.

"When he was abreast of the house, he hesitated. The moon, mounting above the treetops, was shining upon the windows. There was no sound, no movement, from within. Breathless, he entered. His own footsteps echoed and re-echoed about the bare, vault-like hall, emphasizing its emptiness. He closed the door behind him, made a light in his lantern, and whistling loudly to keep up his courage, entered the living-hall. The air was damp and chilly; his breath came like smoke from his nostrils. Setting his lantern upon the floor, he crossed to the fireplace and tossed in fagots and logs from the supply which was still there. The merry crackle of the burning logs, and the warmth and light of the fire cheered him, somewhat; and he attacked the jug and the meat-pie provided by the thoughtful landlord. Revived by the food, he lit his pipe, and taking up his violin, commenced to play. He went over all the tunes he knew, played them in different keys and with variations, to while away the evening; and every time he felt his courage deserting him he turned to his jug for moral support. As you can guess, he did this pretty frequently until, just as he was draining the last drop, he heard a door bang somewhere upstairs, and a rustling in the hall above him. Almost afraid to breathe, he sat there waiting for a recurrence of the sound. Everything was perfectly still except the burning logs in the fireplace. After a while Simon began to fancy that he had not really heard anything, but that his overwrought nerves were playing a trick upon him; so he rose, tiptoed across the room and stood back in the shadows of the great curving stairway, listening. Again he heard sounds above him, more rustling, and footsteps this time. A chill passed over him and the blood froze in his veins; at every fresh noise he felt as if a million pins were pricking his scalp. But nothing happened, and when the sounds had apparently ceased, he waited where he was, leaning against the stairway, so paralyzed with fear that he could not move from the spot.

"He remained thus, listening, while the evening wore away. In spite of his fear Simon became drowsy. The wind outside had risen, and was rattling the shutters and roaring in the chimney, causing the fire to brighten and burst into a feeble flame. Then a wonderful thing happened! The great hall suddenly became ablaze with the light of hundreds of candles. In wonder Simon raised his head and saw a stately procession of men and women, fully fifty couples, arm-in-arm descending the stairs. They wore beautiful clothing—not a bit like the people in the village—but such as Simon had never seen before, except in pictures. He who was apparently the host strode over to the fire and kicked the logs into a blaze, while others gathered about it to warm their hands. Simon thought the scene a grand sight, with their lace ruffles, knee-breeches, wigs, and buckled shoes; and he was lost in admiration of the women, with their powdered hair and white shoulders, their jewels, and their bright eyes which shone so coquettishly above their fans. If these were ghosts, he reflected, they were very gallant ones, and good to look at; he was beginning to be glad he had come when the host suddenly clapped his hands together, and looking his way, ordered the music to begin. There seemed nothing out of the way in all this to Simon as he tucked his fiddle beneath his chin, and drawing the bow across the strings, commenced playing a waltz. Partners were chosen, and the dancing began. Simon, as usual, went from one tune to another, but these people never tired; all night long the dancing continued; and when Simon, weary and thirsty, paused from habit to reach for the mug of ale which was not at his elbow, the host glared at him so furiously that he went on playing more frantically than ever. Faster and faster the mad phantoms danced, swirling around and around the room; faster and faster he fiddled, till his arm ached and his back felt broken; and just as the revel had reached the highest pitch and the fiddle was squeaking its loudest, the stairway against which he was leaning seemed to give way, and Simon fell with a crash. Dazed and bruised from the fall, he sat up; the phantoms had vanished, the lantern was out, and the fire had burned down and was casting flickering shadows about the walls. In growing horror, Simon ran screaming from the house, and down the road to the inn as fast as his legs could carry him. He burst in upon them, his fiddle clutched tightly in one hand, the picture of terror.

"Of course, his story was greeted with knowing looks and sly winks behind his back; and he told it to all who would listen. He continued to fiddle about the village as he had done before, but he was never quite the same after that adventure; the haunted house seemed to have a fascination for him, and it was noticed that he hung about it frequently, though he never entered. And when he announced his intention of spending the next New Year's Eve with the phantoms, the people knew he was crazy and urged him not to do so. But he could not resist; early in the evening of that last day of the year, he was seen making his way towards the haunted house, his fiddle beneath his arm.

"He never came back!"