Miss Maitland had promptly engaged Deacon Meakin to take Moses' place during the latter's enforced idleness, and the arrangement promised to be satisfactory to all concerned.

Susanna had observed:

"You couldn't do better, Eunice. The deacon's forehanded himself, but he likes money—all them Meakins do—an' he's been as oneasy as a fish out o' water sence he sold his farm an' moved into the village. A man 'at's been used to workin' seventeen hours a day, ever sence he was born till he's turned sixty, ain't goin' to be content to lie abed till six seven o'clock in the mornin' an' spend the rest the day splittin' kindlin'-wood to keep a parlor stove a-goin'. He'll be glad o' the job, an' he'll be glad o' the wages, an' he'll break his neck tryin' to do more an' better'n Moses ever did. You couldn't do better. It's a ill wind that blows nobody good, an' Moseses misfortune is the deacon's blessin'."

There was something else which made the good deacon accept Miss Maitland's offer with so much alacrity. According to his own wife:

"The deacon he feels terr'ble sot-up bein' selected to become one the family, so to speak, right now on the top of that treasure findin'. I ain't seen him walk so straight or step 'round so lively, not sence we moved in. An' whatever the truth is in this queer business, he'll fathom it, trust him! or bust."

This, to a next-door neighbor, as the gentleman in question set off down the street to enter upon his new duties.

So it was the deacon whom Katharine had heard busy about the barn and the glimmer of whose lantern had disappeared in the distance. With a precaution his predecessor in office had never practised, he had secured every shutter and window and locked every door before he crossed the driveway between barn and house and entered the kitchen, where Susanna was toasting bread for supper. As he blew out the candle in the lantern and deposited that ancient luminary on the lean-to shelf, he rubbed his hands complacently, and observed:

"Well, Widow Sprigg, I cal'late I've done things up brown. Winds may blow an' waves may roar, as the poet says, but nobody nor nothing can't break into Eunice's buildin's whilst I have the care on 'em. How's he doin'?"

As Moses was the only "he" on the premises the question naturally referred to him.

"Oh, he's all right enough. I mean, right as he can be, stove to pieces like he is. One good sign about him—He's crosser'n fury. All said an' done that me or Eunice could to please him, and he won't be pleased. Wants them childern, an' the mis'able things have skedaddled somewheres an' can't be found."

The deacon recognized an opportunity. He drew his chair up to the fireplace, where, above a bed of glowing coals, Susanna was making her toast, and said:

"There, neighbor, you look clear tuckered out, an' no wonder with what all you've gone through to-day. Hand me the fork. I'll help you. I hain't been ma's husband forty year without learnin' how to toast a slice of bread. An', my sake! Ain't it all just wonderful! An' what in power do you s'pose she'll do with it all?"

Susanna rather reluctantly yielded the toaster, looking speculatively over her spectacles at her would-be helper. Here was another man gone daft, or apparently so. Then she remarked, testily:

"I don't see what's happened all you men to talk so odd. Here's Jim Pettijohn been here a-offerin' his services to help Eunice look after a gold mow, or somethin'. An' me that surprised you could knock me down with a feather, just to see him walkin' up our front path. We ain't never had no 'casion for visits from the Squire—not sence he got to be one. Before then, years ago, when he was a humbly little barefoot shaver runnin' 'round loose, 'cause his ma was too poor to feed him, why the Maitlands used to half keep him. We none of us Maitlands has ever liked him, though. And now you—It ain't for the love of toastin' bread that you've set yourself down 'longside this fireplace, Deacon Meakin, and I do wish you'd put me out my misery an' tell plump and straight what's possessin' this village of Marsden this day!"

"You pretend you don't know, widow?"

"No, I don't pretend. I never 'pretended' a thing in my life. I say plain an' square what I mean an' no hints nor inyendys about it. Now, I ask you as man to man, or widow to deacon, what's all this fuss beyond just Moses gettin' his bones broke? There's something, and it seems to belong to our folks, yet me nor Eunice don't know a touch about it, nuther one. Now, tell."

The slice of bread fell from the two-pronged fork into the fire, but neither of this worthy pair observed the fact. For at once the deacon plunged into his story, relating the varied rumors which were at that moment being excitedly discussed by every other fireside in Marsden, as by this; and the grain of truth extracted from the mass was that—something out of the common had happened, yet nobody knew just what; that Katharine and Montgomery were the chief actors in the drama, with Moses a possible accessory. Also, that to Miss Maitland the whole affair was known "root and branch," and that she had been true to her character and refused to share her affairs with even the friendliest of neighbors.

"And now, Susanna Sprigg, what do you say to that?" demanded the deacon, exultantly, when he had finished his garbled narrative.

"I say—bosh! And you've burned the toast. But I've got enough done, anyway. We always 'feed' at five o'clock in the mornin' an' milk right after. And you needn't bother to lock the buildin's another night. Course, we do have keys an' keep 'em hung in their places, but as for usin' 'em—Why, who in Marsden would steal a cent's worth?"

The deacon felt he had been bidden to take himself away, yet with nothing learned; and as he slowly adjusted his plush cap and pulled its ear-tabs down, he fixed a facetious glance upon the housekeeper, making one more effort toward enlightenment, saying:

"I admit Marsden an honest village, less I never'd a-sold the farm an' moved in. But what's been in the past ain't no pattern for the futur'. Course, you hain't had no occasion for bars an' bolts, heretofore, but hereafter—hereafter—with that bag or box or trunk of diamonds—a gold box it is, too, they say—or them big lumps of gold out the mine—prudence is advisable. Good night."

He went out, rather noisily closing the door behind him; and, fairly snatching up the plate of toast, Susanna repaired to the room where, in an unlighted gloom, Eunice awaited her supper.

"My suz! Eunice, why didn't you light up 'fore this? I meant to do it myself, but what with runnin' up-stairs to tend to Moses an' showin' that blunderheaded deacon the ways of doin' our chores, I let it go."

Eunice rose to do as suggested. Indeed, she had been sitting so absorbed in her own thoughts that she had not observed the coming of nightfall; but Susanna interposed:

"You set still, Eunice Maitland, till I get all the lamps lit there is. I've got to have a chance to see whether I'm awake or dreamin'. I want to see square into your own face, an' learn if you're bein' deceived or are deceivin' me. Here's that little mis'able Jimmy Pettijohn—"

"Little, Susanna?"

"Yes, little. Always was an' always will be. His outside has growed big enough in all conscience, but his inside has stayed the size of a pin-point, same as it was born. And Deacon Meakin, that's always had the reputation of common sense, a-insistin' that a gold mow has been found in our woods; or if not that, then a box—a shiny box of—My suz! Eunice—Eunice—what is the matter?"

Miss Maitland had risen and stood staring incredulously at the housekeeper. She was trembling violently and her face had turned paler than the other had ever seen it. She opened her lips to speak, but words seemed slow in coming, and after a moment she sank back in her chair, murmuring only:

"Oh, Susanna! How dreadful!"

"Eunice, be you sick?"

"No. Oh, no, no."

"Then there's somethin' in this, after all. An'—an'—you never told me!" cried the widow, for the first time in her life feeling really angry with this good friend.

"I couldn't tell you, dear Susanna. I could tell nobody. It does not concern—any one now living."

Her hesitation was not lost upon the eager woman opposite, whose curiosity was greater even than her anger; making her demand, promptly:

"Which was it? Box or mow?"

"I cannot tell you. I shall not say another word upon the subject. Where are the children?" But though the tone was decisive, it was also very gentle; and now smiling across to her irate housemate, she added: "Be faithful to me in this matter, dear friend, as you have always been in others. The secret is not mine to impart. You will help me to silence all these dreadful rumors by simply ignoring them. Nothing has happened, save Moses' trouble, to affect our life in any way. I am astonished that people should make so much of so little, and I am both surprised and disappointed that any rumors have been set afloat. It seems impossible to trust anybody, nowadays, even a child! But where are the two who belong to us? Where is Katharine? Where is Montgomery? He should be going home, or his grandmother will worry. But be sure to put him up a basket of food. There's that half of a boiled ham, and yesterday's bread was extra fine. A loaf of that and a square of gingerbread should satisfy him for the bread-and-milk dinner he was forced to put up with. He was very helpful in running errands, I must not forget that."

Miss Eunice continued talking as if she wished to recall to herself all the good qualities of one who had bitterly disappointed her. How could a Sturtevant be so dishonorable? Or was it a Maitland? Which of the two young things who had found the box and had given her their promise, had so soon broken their word? For, of course, only by and through them could these wild rumors have been set astir.

Susanna had listened in silence, which was not her habit. She was still disappointed and hurt, and was trying in her own mind to put several things together. But she rallied as Eunice paused, and said:

"I don't know where they are, ary one. The Squire he was after Monty, hot foot. 'Twas him, he said, 'at had set the yarn a-goin'. After all, it might be one his own wild goose make-believes, if—if you hadn't owned it was true. Of course, I'll do what you want. I always have, or tried to; but I will say this much, Eunice Maitland, 'at I don't feel you've the confidence in me you ought to have. That's all. I'll say no more. And as for where them two oneasy young ones are, I can't guess. I heard 'em talkin' or I heard Monty, up in the hay-mow, just after the Squire wanted him. I heard him as I was crossing the gravel road to the barn, yet when we got there an' called to him—he simply wasn't. He knowed he'd been doin' wrong, most like, else he'd have come down."

"Did you tell him that it was Squire Pettijohn who wished to see him?"

"Yes. Course. I thought that would scare him into comin' right away."

Miss Maitland laughed, and answered: "My dear, misguided woman! You might have known Monty well enough to understand how fast he would disappear in some other direction. He has probably gone home and Katharine with him. I hate to put any further task upon you, but I—I'm rather upset by to-day's events and shall have to ask you to go for Kate. I must tell her to remember hours and always be on hand at meal-time. She is a winning child in many ways, but—I fear I'm too old to get used again to any child."

Susanna went out without a further word. In her heart she was glad of the rather long walk to Madam Sturtevant's, since during it she would have opportunity to stop at some neighbors' doors, hear what they had to say, and promptly disabuse their minds of whatever wild notions they had that day acquired. For despite her personal vexation with Eunice she was loyal to her, and felt that she had but to say "Bosh!" in her most emphatic way to any rumor repeated in order to dispose of it. Mistaken woman! As well try to stem the ocean's flood as to silence a secret once betrayed!

These several calls, brief though they were, brought her somewhat late to Madam Sturtevant's, and at that very moment when Alfaretta rushed into the dining-room, frightened and breathless. Now the Widow Sprigg so rarely paid a visit to the Mansion that she meant to make this one as formal as possible; so, instead of tapping at the side door, she stepped to the front one and gave a resounding whack upon the big brass knocker.

"Ouch!" screamed Alfaretta.

"Why—what's that!" exclaimed the Madam. After-dark callers were an unknown thing at that house, and instant premonition of evil chilled its mistress's heart.

"D-don't be s-s-scared!" said the little maid, hurrying to the lady's side and clinging to her skirt, stammering as readily as Montgomery would have done and ostensibly to reassure her mistress, but, in reality, for her own protection. Madam could be so stately and grand that she must awe any intruder who looked upon her, and behind her black skirt the girl felt safer.

"Scared, Alfaretta? How absurd! But coming so suddenly upon our quietude the summons surprised me. Take the candle from the side table and open the door."

The Mansion was still lighted by candles which its mistress herself prepared, molding them in tin molds exactly as had been done by the first lady who had ever ruled there, but for economy's sake as few were burned as possible. One now glimmered upon the supper-table and another, unlighted, waited elsewhere for just such an emergency—but an emergency so long delayed that Alfy had never expected it to arrive.

She had learned to polish the antique stick to a dazzling brilliancy, its snuffers and extinguisher as well, "in case we should have an evening call," being the weekly remark that accompanied the polishing. But till now the wick of the candle thus prepared had remained white as when removed from the mold, and Alfaretta's hand trembled as she now left her ambush of black serge and tried to obey.

"Take care, child! You're lighting the candle—not the wick! Take another lighter and try again."

Even matches were a luxury to be reckoned with in that impoverished home; and besides, all the family had always used paper "lighters" daintily twisted, and crimped at top, nor was Elinor Sturtevant one to go behind her own traditions. But, at that moment, Alfaretta had already wasted three lighters without igniting the new wick when again that loud knocking was repeated.

Madam's patience fled.

"You clumsy child! Don't delay any longer. Whoever it is will think us most inhospitable. Take this one already burning and go to the door at once."

"I—I dassent!" quavered Alfaretta, retreating toward the kitchen.

"You—dare—not? How ridiculous. Then I will go myself! though when one has a maid one expects her to attend the door. That's a point upon which I am very particular. Remember that, in future."

"Yes'm," murmured the girl, absently. There were so many "points" upon which the old gentlewoman insisted that some of them fell on unheeding ears. At present, she was conscious only of two things: she must either remain alone behind in a dark room or she must go with her mistress and face whatever lay beyond that great front door. Deciding the latter course to be preferable, she timidly followed the vanishing candle down the long hall to where a barricade of bars and chains and bolts made admission from without a matter of some moments.

"Hold the candle, Alfaretta, while I unfasten the door," commanded the Madam, and the girl had to obey. But her hand shook so that she scattered "droppings," which even at that moment did not escape the mistress's critical eye and which would have to be cleaned up as soon as morning came.

At last the door was opened, and to Madam Sturtevant nobody was visible save Susanna Sprigg, wearing her Sunday bonnet and her most polite manner, while her spectacles gleamed like balls of fire as the candle-light fell upon them. But what Alfaretta saw was another face, so wild and fierce and terrible to look upon that her heart almost ceased beating. A white and haggard face, that seemed imprinted upon the darkness as if it belonged to no body nor substance but was a ghostly apparition of the night. All the eerie stories the poor child had heard during her life at the "County Farm," from the lips of the garrulous pensioners who had nothing better to do than invent them, came back to her now; and as the face appeared to be coming nearer, growing more and more distinct, she uttered a piercing shriek and slammed the door with such violence that the candle went out and the darkness she dreaded enveloped them all.