"Ain't this grand, Dorothy? I never did see anybody so good as Mrs. Calvert! She wouldn't hear tell o' my working half the day, though I could well's not, 'cause the circus don't take in till two o'clock. No, sir! She up an' give me the whole day an' said my pay was to go on just the same as if I was hoein' them inguns 'at need it."

"Onions, Jim; not 'inguns,'" corrected Dorothy with a smile. "You are improving fast. I haven't heard you call anybody 'Mis',' for Mrs., in ever so long, and most of the time you keep tight hold of your g's. Yes, she is dear! but you deserve her kindness. Nobody else ever served her so faithfully, she says; not even those old colored servants who love her and—impose on her, too! You look fine, to-day. Those 'store clothes' are mightily becoming and I'm proud of you. But whatever shall we do with a whole day?"

"Mrs. Calvert, she said we was to drive into the town, Newburgh, you know, where the circus is to be at and to a livery stable that knows her. Or the man who keeps it does. We was to put the horse up there an' leave it till time to go home again. Then we was to walk around the city an' see the sights. 'Bout noon she reckoned 'twould be a good plan to go to what they call the 'Headquarters,' where General George Washington lived at, when he fit into the Revolution. I've been readin' about that in the History she give me and I'd admire to stand on the spot he stood on once. There's a big yard around the house and benches for folks to sit on, and a well o' water for 'em to drink; and nobody has to pay for settin' nor drinkin', nary one. All the folks want you to do, and you don't have to do it, you ain't really obleeged, is to go inside a room an' write your name and where you come from in a 'Visitors' Book.' I've been practicing right smart, ever since she told me that, an' I can write my name real plain. What bothers me is to tell where I come from. I don't much like to say the poorhouse, where I was took after my folks died, and I hate to say Mrs. Stott's truck-farm. I haven't got no right to say Riverside nor Deerhurst, 'cause I've only lately come to them places, I've never come from 'em. I——"

"O Jim! Stop 'splitting hairs'!"

Thus arrested in his flow of language, the youth carefully inspected his clothing and failed to perceive the "hairs" in question. Whereupon Dorothy laughed and assured him that she had merely used a figure of speech, and meant: "Don't fuss! Just write 'Baltimore,' as I shall, and have done with it. Funny, Jim, but I just this minute thought that I'm the one who doesn't know where I came from! Well, I'm here now, and what's behind me is none of my business. But, boy, you mustn't put that 'at' after places. It sounds queer, and I hate queer people. Ah! me!"

Jim drove carefully along the fine road with a full appreciation of the beautiful scenery through which it ran, yet in no wise moved to express his admiration of it. He was too happy for words and his soaring thoughts would have amazed even Dorothy, familiar though she had become with his ambitions; and after driving onward for some time in this contented silence he became suddenly aware that his companion was not as happy as he. Her eyes were fixed upon the road and her face had a troubled, preoccupied expression.

"Dolly Chester, what you thinkin' of? Don't you like it? Ain't you glad you come?"

"Why—Jim! How you startled me! Of course I'm glad I come. The whole trip is the most delightful thing; but—what I was thinking of, I'm afraid would make you sneer if I told."

"Tell an' see if it will. I ain't no great hand to make fun of folks—I don't like to be made fun of myself. What was it?"

"The Ghost that haunts Skyrie. Jim—I've seen it! I myself with my own eyes."

He checked his horse in his amazement, and incredulously ejaculated:

"You—don't!"

"Yes, I do. I did. This very last night that ever was; and talk about liking this ride? Huh! I'm more glad than I can say to get away from home just this little while, even. Yet mother and father are left there, and if IT should come and frighten them while I'm not there—O Jim! It scared me almost into a fit. Scared me so stiff and still I could neither move nor speak. Now I'm rather glad I didn't. It may not come again, though It has two or three times."

They were nearly at the top of a long hill and, partly to rest the perfectly untired horse, partly to hear in silence this remarkable story, Jim drew aside into the shade of a wayside tree and commanded:

"Silly Dolly! There ain't no such things; but—out with the hull business, body an' bones!"

"I'm glad to 'out' with it. It's seemed as if I should burst, keeping it all to myself, and the worst is I feel that father wouldn't believe me. There's something else, too. Jim, do you believe that Peter Piper is really harmless? He follows me everywhere I go. He doesn't come near the house because mother doesn't like him and shows that plain enough even for him to understand. She never did like beggars down home in Baltimore, and she's taken a fearful dislike to Peter."

"Stick to what you started to tell; not get a body's ideas all on edge, then switch off onto Peter Piper. As for that poor feller, he won't hurt nobody what don't hurt him. But he ain't a ghost. Tell what you saw."

"Will you promise not to laugh nor—nor disbelieve?"

"I won't laugh an' I will believe—if I can."

"You dear good Jim! I can always rely upon you to help me in my troubles!" cried Dorothy, gratefully.

With comfortable complacency Jim replied: "That's so."

"You know Pa Babcock doesn't work for us any more. He left the next day after the 'Bee.' Sent Alfaretta around to tell us that 'he'd overdone hisself and was obliged to take a vacation.' Why, Jim Barlow, he was engaged to work three days out of each week and he never got in more than one. He was to 'find himself,' which father says means to furnish his own food, and he never brought a single meal. Mother Martha had to cook extra for him every time. We weren't real sorry to have him leave, for we thought it would be easy to get another man, now that Skyrie had been put in such good order. But it wasn't; besides, any that offered asked from two to three dollars a day. Think of that! Why, of course mother couldn't pay that, even if it was haying time and men scarce, as they all told her. She said we must let all the farm alone except just the garden patch and that field of corn which is to feed our stock next winter. Jim, life in the country 'isn't all catnip!' I never, never dreamed that I could work so hard or do so much. Look at my hands, will you?"

She thrust out her little hands, now scarred and blistered by the use of heavy, unfamiliar tools, compared with which her old home "garden set" were mere toys.

For sympathy she received the assurance:

"Won't blister nigh so much, after a spell, and the skin gets tough. Go on with the ghost, will you?"

"I am going on. It's all mixed up with Pa Babcock. If he hadn't left I wouldn't have had to work in the garden nor mother in the cornfield. That tires her awfully, and makes her fearfully cross; so that father and I keep all little worries to ourselves that we can. He even tries to help her hoe those terrible rows of corn that has come up so beautifully and is growing so well. If only the weeds wouldn't grow just as fast! But to see my mother handling a hoe and my father trying to do so too, resting on his crutches and tottering along the row as he works—Jim, it makes me wild! So of course I try to take all care of the garden patch and—of course, I failed. Partly I was afraid to stay out there alone, sometimes, for I might happen any time to look up and there would be Peter Piper staring over the wall at me, or even inside it. Then I have to run in and stop working for awhile. Mother would be angry if she knew and drive him off with harsh words, and though I am afraid of him, too, I can't bear to hurt his feelings. I am really so sorry for him that often I carry my dinner out of doors with me and give it to him, though mother Martha thinks I've taken it because I do so love to eat out under the trees. I can't help feeling that he's hungrier than I am; and I don't think it's wrong because I've never been forbidden nor asked about it. Do you think it is, Jim dear?"

"I ain't judgin' for other folks and I 'low your victuals is your own," answered he.

"That's a horrid word, 'victuals!' It makes me think of 'cold' ones and beggars at the back gate."

"All right. I won't say it again. Get back to that ghost."

"I'm getting. Why hurry so? We have the whole day before us."

"But, Dorothy Chester, that circus takes in at two o'clock!" warned the careful lad.

"And it can't be later than ten now. Jim Barlow—I've been to bed some night, leaving those hateful garden beds all weedy and neglected: and I've got up in the morning and—found—them—in—perfect—order! What do you think of that?"

"Think? Why, 't likely your pa or ma done 'em for you after you was abed."

"No, sir. I might have thought so, too, only they both denied it; nor can I make them believe I didn't do the work myself. So, after I had explained once or twice how it was and they only laughed, I gave up and held my tongue. Mother Martha says that weeds can't pull themselves nor 'cultivators'—even little ones like mine—run over the beds as something certainly did. However, if they won't listen they needn't. I know it's true, though I dare not tell them I've seen the Ghost; because they are both so discouraged and anxious over this farming business that if they found the place was really haunted they'd leave it. Yet, Jim, we can't leave. We mustn't, no matter what. Father came here to get well—his only chance. We haven't enough money to move back to Baltimore nor to live there afterward. We must stay and live with the Ghost. It is the only way. But—O Jim! I've not only seen what It has done in the garden, I've seen It at work there. Seen It with my own two eyes! Now, do you believe?"

"Shucks! Pshaw! You don't!"

Alas! Honest Jim did not believe but he was profoundly sorry for Dorothy, who he felt sure had suffered from too great and unaccustomed labor: and he could only answer according to his own convictions; as he did with added gentleness:

"I think that that there Babcock girl had ought to had her neck wrung 'fore she stuffed any such nonsense into your head, Dolly girl, an' I wish to goodness, just as you did once, 't I 'could make two of myself.' Then I'd make short work of that mite of gardening what seems such a job to you. I—I don't know but I'd ought to quit Deerhurst an' hire myself out to your folks."

"No, no! Oh! no, indeed! You're in the right place now, just the best place to get on as you couldn't do with us."

This opinion was comforting. Jim was so happy in his new home that he had no real desire to exchange it for Skyrie: where he felt his conscience and "duty" would compel him to work so early and late that there would be no time left for his "study." He changed the subject and inquired:

"If you seen It, what did it look like?"

"It was tall, like a man. It was all in some light-colored clothes and it worked as steadily as if It were a machine. But it made very little noise. It didn't want to be heard, I thought. When It had finished It sort of vanished behind the lilac bushes and I thought I saw It crossing a field toward the south meadow. That's where the old 'gold mine' is, that Alfaretta told of, and where she said It lives part of the time. It used to come into the house itself, into the very room father sleeps in now. So she said."

"Huh! She's the foolishest girl I ever heard of. Dorothy, don't you go to takin' up with such a silly thing as her. Huh!"

"Oh! I'm not taking up with her, she's taking up with me! The 'shoe is on the other foot.' But she's real kind and good. She never comes to Skyrie without trying to help in whatever we are doing. Mother thinks she's a splendid girl, even if she is a little forward in her manners. But I haven't told her about the ghost being true. I've told nobody but you, Jim."

Such exclusive confidence was flattering, but the boy was still unconvinced. After a moment of pondering he asked:

"Why didn't your folks see It if you did?"

"Because it was only an accident that I did, either. I had to go down into the kitchen for a drink of water and so saw it through those windows. We all sleep on the other side of the house, away from the garden. That's why."

"All right. Giddap!" commented Jim, driving back into the road and chirruping to the horse, while, having relieved herself of her secret, Dorothy gave herself up entirely to the pleasure of the moment, and soon was eagerly discussing the chances of their finding a suitable animal for their purchase at the circus, as father John had suggested was possible.

A turn of the road soon brought them to a small house standing within a rude inclosure, and at present surrounded by such a concourse of people that both Jim and Dorothy immediately conjectured:

"Another auction! Let's stop and listen."

It was that same Bill Barry who had officiated at Skyrie who now stood on the box here; and, as Jim drove up toward the gate, he immediately recognized the two young people and called out to them:

"Hello, there! How-de-do? Lookin' for somethin' to put your money on? Well, sorry, but all the household stuff's bid off. Jest a-comin' to the prettiest little piece o' horseflesh 't ever you laid your eyes on." Then with a general sweep of his eye over the assemblage, he added for the benefit of all: "This here vandoo just sends the tears to my eyes, hardened old sinner though I am. Auctioning off a poor widow woman's goods ain't no joke, let me tell you. See this pretty little piebald mare? Household pet, she is. Gentle as a kitten, broke to saddle or harness, either one, used to children, got to be sold no matter how the kids' hearts ache, nor the widow's either! Start her up, somebody! How much am I bid for the beautiful calico pony, beloved of a widow and orphans? How—much?"

"Ten dollars!" cried somebody in the crowd and the auctioneer retorted that the bidder must be joking.

Dorothy, listening, flashed one indignant glance over the crowd and stood up in the runabout, resisting Jim's abashed attempts to pull her down upon the seat. She clutched her pocket-book with all her strength, as if he might try to take it from her, and called out in her clear treble:

"Thirty-five dollars!"

A silence that might be felt over that assembly, and no other bid followed Dorothy's. Once, twice, thrice, Mr. Barry solicited a "raise" but none was forthcoming. To nobody else in that company was the pretty, piebald pony worth even half so much money. The creature had been born on the western plains, and while it had a reputation for speed was not strong enough for hard work, such as these other possible bidders required.

"Going, going, gone! Sold to Miss Dorothy Chester for thirty-five dollars, cash down! Now for the cart and harness. How much?"

While waiting offers for these articles the clerk of the auction obligingly led the pony through the gate and fastened its halter to the back of the runabout; whereupon Dorothy's consuming eagerness could hardly wait to count out the seven crisp banknotes which made her the happy possessor of that wonderful pony.

Another moment found her on the ground beside it, patting its neck, smoothing its velvety nostrils, and longing to kiss it with that sudden affection born in her. So absorbed was she in the creature that she noticed nothing further going on about her till somebody politely asked her to "step aside and let us hitch up."

Then she saw that Jim had left the runabout himself and was now between the shafts of a small low wagon, drawing it into the road. Five minutes later he announced:

"We're ready to go now, Dorothy."

"Shall we take the pony with us to the circus? Why are you turning the runabout around to go back the way we came? Newburgh's not in that direction."

"I—I guess we won't finish our trip to Newburgh, to-day, Dolly," he answered with a laugh.

"Why not?"

"Because—'cause you spent all your money for the horse an' I spent all mine, all 't I've earned yet, for the rig. Which critter'll you drive home, Dorothy? Home it is where we'll eat that nice lunch o' Mrs. Calvert's, 'cause I haven't got a cent left to buy them circus tickets. Which one did you say?"

"My own!" cried the girl, exultantly, as she sprang into the rickety little phaeton and took up the pony's reins.