Mr. Cobb slowly raised his head. He looked about him in a bewildered way, and then his gaze fixed itself upon Mrs. Barnes.

“What—why—YOU!” he gasped.

“Eh?” stammered Thankful, whose surprise and bewilderment were almost as great as his. “Eh? What?”

“You?” repeated Solomon. “What—what are you doin' here?”

“What am I doin' here? What am I doin'?”

“Yes.” Then, after another stare about the room, he added: “This ain't Kenelm Parker's house? Whose house is it?”

“It's my house, of course. Emily, go and fetch some—some water or somethin'. He's out of his head.”

Emily hurried to the kitchen, Thankful hastened to help the unexpected visitor to his feet. But the visitor declined to be helped.

“Let me alone,” he roared. “Let me be. I—I want to know whose house this is?”

“It's my house, I tell you. You ought to know whose house it is. Land sakes! You and I have had talk enough about it lately. Don't you know where you are? What are you sittin' there on the floor for? Are you hurt?”

Slowly Mr. Cobb rose to his feet.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, “that this is—is Abner's place? How'd I get here?”

“I don't know. I ain't hardly had time to make sure you are here yet. And I'm sartin YOU ain't sure. That was an awful tumble you got. Seems as if you must have hurt yourself. And you're soppin' wet through! What in the WORLD?”

She moved toward him again, but he waved her away.

“Let me alone!” he ordered. “I was headin' for Kenelm Parker's. How'd I get here?”

“I tell you I don't know. I suppose you lost your way. No wonder, such a night's this. Set down. Let me get you somethin' hot to drink. Come out in the kitchen by the cookstove. Don't—”

“Hush up! Let me think. I never see such a woman to talk. I—I don't see how I done it. I left Chris Badger's and came across the fields and—”

“And you took the wrong path, I guess, likely. Did you WALK from Chris Badger's? Where's your horse and team? You didn't walk from the Centre, did you?”

“'Course I didn't. Think I'm a dum fool? My horse fell down and hurt his knee and I left him in Badger's barn. I cal'lated to go to Kenelm's and put up over night. I—”

He was interrupted by Emily, who entered with a glass in her hand.

“Here's the water, Auntie,” she said. “Is he better now?”

“Better?” snorted Solomon. “What's the matter with you? I ain't sick. What you got in that tumbler? Water! What in time do I want of any more water? Don't I look as if I'd had water enough to last me one spell? I'm—consarn it all, I'm a reg'lar sponge! How far off is Kenelm's from here? How long will it take me to get there?”

Thankful answered, and her answer was decisive.

“I don't know,” she said, “but I do know you ain't goin' to try to get anywhere 'till mornin'. You and I ain't been any too lovin', Solomon Cobb, but I shan't take the responsibility of your dyin' of pneumonia. You'll stay right here, and the first thing I'll do is head off that chill you've got this very minute.”

There was no doubt about the chill. Solomon's face and hands were blue and he was shaking from head to foot. But his determination was unshaken. He strode to the door.

“How do I get to Parker's?” he demanded.

“I tell you you mustn't go to Parker's or anywhere else. You're riskin' your life.”

Mr. Cobb did not answer. He lifted the latch and pulled the door open. A howling gust of wind-driven rain beat in upon him, drenching the carpet and causing the lamp to flicker and smoke. For a moment Solomon gazed out into the storm; then he relinquished his hold and staggered back.

“I—I can't do it!” he groaned. “I've GOT to stay here! I've GOT to!”

Thankful, exerting all her strength, closed the door and locked it. “Indeed you've got to,” she declared. “Now go out into the kitchen and set by the stove while I heat a kettle and make you some ginger tea or somethin'.”

Solomon hesitated.

“He must, Aunt Thankful,” urged Emily; “he really must.”

The visitor turned to stare at her.

“Who are you?” he demanded, ungraciously. Then, as another chill racked him from head to foot, he added: “I don't care. Take me somewheres and give me somethin'—ginger tea or—or kerosene or anything else, so it's hot. I—I'm—sho—oo—ook all to—pi—ic—ces.”

They led him to the kitchen, where Thankful prepared the ginger tea. During its preparation she managed to inform Emily concerning the identity of their unexpected lodger. Solomon, introduced to Miss Howes, merely grunted and admitted that he had “heard tell” of her. His manner might have led a disinterested person to infer that what he had heard was not flattering. He drank his tea, and as he grew warmer inside and out his behavior became more natural, which does not mean that it was either gracious or grateful.

At length he asked what time it was. Thankful told him.

“I think you'd better be gettin' to bed, Solomon,” she suggested. “I'll hunt up one of Mr. Caleb Hammond's nightshirts, and while you're sleepin' your wet clothes can be dryin' here by the cookstove.”

Solomon grunted, but he was, apparently, willing to retire. Then came the question as to where he should sleep. Emily offered a suggestion.

“Why don't you put him in the back room, Auntie,” she said. “The one Miss Timpson used to have. That isn't occupied now and the bed is ready.”

Thankful hesitated. “I don't know's he'd better have that room, Emily,” she said.

“Why not? I'm sure it's a very nice room.”

“Yes, I know it is, but—”

“But what?”

Mr. Cobb had a remark to make.

“Well, come on, come on,” he said, testily. “Put me somewheres and do it quick. Long's I've GOT to sleep in this house I might's well be doin' it. Where is this room you're talkin' about? Let's see it.”

Emily took the lamp and led the way up the back stairs. Solomon followed her and Thankful brought up the rear. She felt a curious hesitancy in putting even her disagreeable relative in that room on this night. Around the gables and upon the roof the storm whined and roared as it had the night when she first explored that upper floor. And she remembered, now, that it had stormed, though not as hard, the night when Miss Timpson received her “warning.” If there were such things as ghosts, and if the little back bedroom WAS haunted, a night like this was the time for spectral visitations. She had half a mind to give Mr. Cobb another room.

But, before she could decide what to do, before the struggle between her common-sense and what she knew were silly forebodings was at an end, the question was decided for her. Solomon had entered the large room and expressed his approval of it.

“This'll do first rate,” he said. “Why didn't you want to put me in here? Suppose you thought 'twas too good for me, eh? Well, it might be for some folks, but not for me. What's that, a closet?”

He was pointing to the closed door of the little room, the one which Miss Timpson had intended using as a study. Thankful had, after her last night of fruitless spook hunting, closed the door and locked it.

“What's this door locked for?” asked Mr. Cobb, who had walked over and was trying the knob.

“Oh, nothing; it's just another empty room, that's all. There's nothin' in it.”

“Humph! Is that so? What do you lock up a room with nothin' in it for?” He turned the key and flung the door open. “Ugh!” he grunted, in evident disappointment. “'Tis empty, ain't it? Well, good night.”

Emily, whose face expressed a decided opinion concerning the visitor, walked out into the hall. Thankful remained.

“Solomon,” she said, in a whisper, “tell me. Have you made up your mind about that mortgage?”

“Um? No, I ain't. Part of what I came over here today for was to find out a little more about this property and about Holliday Kendrick's offer for it. I may have a talk with him afore I decide about renewin' that mortgage. It looks to me as if 'twould be pretty good business to dicker with him. He's got money, and if I can get some of it, so much the better for me.”

“Solomon, you don't mean—”

“I don't know what I mean yet, I tell ye. But I do tell you this: I'm a business man and I know the value of money. I worked hard for what I got; 'twa'n't left me by nobody, like some folks's I hear of. Don't ask me no more questions. I'll see old Kendrick tomorrow, maybe; he's expected down.”

“He is? Mr. Holliday Kendrick? How do you know?”

“I know 'cause I found out, same as I usually find out things. Chris Badger got a telegram through his office from Holliday to John Kendrick sayin' he'd come on the noon train.”

“But why should he come? And on Christmas day?”

“I don't know. Probably he ain't so silly about Christmas as the average run of idiots. He's a business man, too. There! Good night, good night. Leave me alone so's I can say my prayers and turn in. I'm pretty nigh beat out.”

“And you won't tell me about that mortgage?”

“No. I'll tell you when my mind's made up; that ain't yet.”

Thankful turned to go. At the threshold she spoke once more.

“I wonder what you say in those prayers of yours, Solomon,” she observed. “I should imagine the Lord might find 'em interestin'.”

“I'm glad I said it, Emily,” she told her cousin, who was awaiting her in her bedroom. “I presume likely it'll do more harm than good, but it did ME good while I was sayin' it. The mean, stingy old hypocrite! Now let's go downstairs and fill Georgie's stockin'.”

But that ceremony, it appeared, must be deferred. Georgie was still wide-awake. He called to Emily to ask if the man who had come was Santa Claus.

“The little rascal,” chuckled Thankful. “Well,” with a sigh, “he'll never make a worse guess if he lives to be as old as Methuselah's grandmarm. Emily, you sneak down and fetch the stockin' and the presents up here to my room. We'll do the fillin' here and hang up the stockin' in the mornin' afore he gets up.”

While they were filling the stocking and tying the packages containing gifts too bulky to be put in it Miss Howes cross-questioned her cousin. Emily had been most unfavorably impressed with Mr. Cobb during this, her first, meeting with him, and her suspicions concerning Thankful's financial affairs, already aroused by the lady's reticence, were now active. She questioned and, after a time, Thankful told her, first a little and then all the truth.

“I didn't mean to tell you, Emily,” she said, tearfully. “I didn't mean to tell a soul, but I—I just couldn't keep it to myself any longer. If he doesn't renew that mortgage—and goodness knows what he'll do after he talks with Mr. Holliday Kendrick—I—I don't see how I can help losin' everything. It's either that or sell out, and I don't want to sell—Oh, I don't! I know I can make a go of this place of mine if I have another year of it. I KNOW I can.”

Emily was very much excited and fiercely indignant.

“The beast!” she cried, referring to the pious occupant of the back bedroom; “the mean, wicked, miserable old miser! To think of his being a relative of yours, Aunt Thankful, and treating you so! And accepting your hospitality at the very time when he is considering taking your home away from you!”

Thankful smiled ruefully. “As to that, Emily,” she said, “I ain't greatly surprised. Judgin' by what I've seen of Sol Cobb, I should say 'twas a part of his gospel to accept anything he can get for nothin'. But how he can have the face to pray while he's doin' it I don't see. What kind of a God does he think he's prayin' to? I should think he'd be scared to get down on his knees for fear he'd never be let up again. Well, if there IS a ghost in that room I should say this was its chance.”

“A ghost? What are you talking about, Auntie?”

“Eh? Oh, nothin', nothin'. Did I say 'ghost'? I didn't realize what I said, I guess.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Oh, I don't know. . . . There, there, don't let's get any more foolish than we can help. Let's go to bed. We'll have to turn out awful early in the mornin' to get Georgie's stockin' hung up and his presents ready. Now trot off to bed, Emily.”

“Aunt Thankful, you're hiding something from me. I know you are.”

“Now, Emily, you know I wouldn't—”

“Yes, you would. At least, you have. All this time you have been deceiving me about that mortgage. And now I think there is something else. What did you mean by a ghost in that room?”

“I didn't mean anything. There ain't any ghost in that room—the one Solomon's in.”

“In THAT room? Is there one in another room?”

“Now, Emily—”

“Aunt Thankful, there is something strange in some room; don't deny it. You aren't accustomed to deceiving people, and you can't deceive me now. Tell me the truth.”

“Well, Emily, it's all such perfect foolishness. You don't believe in ghosts, do you?”

“Of course I don't.”

“Neither do I. Whatever it is that snores and groans in that little back room ain't—”

“AUNTIE! What DO you mean?”

Thankful was cornered. Her attempts at evasion were useless and, little by little, Emily drew from her the story of the little back bedroom, of her own experience there the night of their first visit, of what Winnie S. had said concerning the haunting of the “Cap'n Abner place,” and of Miss Timpson's “warning.” She told it in a low tone, so as not to awaken Georgie, and, as she spoke, the wind shrieked and wailed and groaned, the blinds creaked, the water dripped and gurgled in the gutters, and the shadows outside the circle of light from the little hand lamp were black and threatening. Emily, as she listened, felt the cold shivers running up and down her spine. It is one thing to scoff at superstition in the bright sunlight; it is quite another to listen to a tale like this on a night like this in a house a hundred years old. Miss Howes scoffed, it is true, but the scoffing was not convincing.

“Nonsense!” she said, stoutly. “A ghost that snores? Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“Nobody ever did, I guess,” Thankful admitted. “It's all too silly for anything, of course. I KNOW it's silly; but, Emily, there's SOMETHIN' queer about that room. I told you what I heard; somethin' or somebody said, 'Oh, Lord!' as plain as ever I heard it said. And somethin' or somebody snored when Miss Timpson was there. And, of course, when they tell me how old Mr. Eldredge snored in that very room when he was dyin', and how Miss Timpson's sister snored when SHE was sick, it—it—”

“Oh, stop, Auntie! You will have ME believing in—in things, if you keep on. It's nonsense and you and I will prove it so before I go back to Middleboro. Now you must go to bed.”

“Yes, I'm goin'. Well, if there is a ghost in that room it'll have its hands full with Sol Cobb. He's a tough old critter, if ever there was one. Good night, Emily.”

“Good night, Aunt Thankful. Don't worry about the—ha! ha!—ghost, will you?”

“No, I've got enough to worry about this side of the grave. . . . Mercy! what's the matter?”

“Nothing! I—I thought I heard a noise in—in the hall. I didn't though.”

“No, course you didn't. Shall I go to your room with you?”

“No indeed! I—I should be ashamed to have you. Where is Imogene?”

“She's up in her room. She went to bed early. Goodness! Hear that wind. It cries like—like somethin' human.”

“It's dreadful. It is enough to make anyone think. . . . There! If you and I talk any longer we shall both be behaving like children. Good night.”

“Good night, Emily. Is Georgie asleep at last?”

“I think so. I haven't heard a sound from him. Call me early, Auntie.”

Thankful lit her own lamp; Emily took the one already lighted and hastened down the hall. Thankful shut the door and prepared for bed. The din of the storm was terrific. The old house shook as if it were trembling with fright and screaming in the agony of approaching dissolution. It was a long time before Thankful fell asleep, but at last she did.

She was awakened by a hand upon her arm and a voice whispering in her ear.

“Auntie!” whispered Emily. “Auntie, wake up! Oh, DO wake up!”

Thankful was broad awake in a moment. She sat up in bed. The room was in black darkness, and she felt rather than saw Miss Howes standing beside her.

“What is it, Emily?” she cried. “What is the matter?”

“Hush, hush! Don't speak so loud. Get up! Get up and light the lamp.”

Thankful sprang out of bed and hunted for the matchbox. She found it after a time and the lamp was lighted. Emily, wearing a wrapper over her night clothes, was standing by the door, apparently listening. Her face was white and she was trembling.

“What IS it?” whispered Thankful.

“Hush! I don't know what it is. Listen!”

Thankful listened. All she heard were the noises of the storm.

“I don't hear anything,” she said.

“No—no, you can't hear it from here. Come out into the hall.”

Cautiously and on tiptoe she led the way to the hall and toward the head of the front stairs. There she seized her cousin's arm and whispered in her ear.

“Listen—!” she breathed.

Thankful listened.

“Why—why,” she whispered, “there's somebody down in the livin'-room! Who is it?”

“I don't know. There are more than one, for I heard them talking. Who CAN it be?”

Thankful listened again.

“Where's Georgie?” she whispered, after a moment.

“In his room, I suppose. . . . What? You don't think—”

Thankful had tiptoed back to her own room and was returning with the lamp. Together they entered Georgie's bed chamber. But bed and room were empty. Georgie was not there.