"Alfaretta!" cried Madam Sturtevant, "what does this mean?" Something of the girl's panic had seized her, also, though she tried to hide her own agitation by sternness.

"My suz, Alfy Brown! What ails ye? You nigh knocked me down, slammin' the door right in my face, that way!" exclaimed Susanna, who had, fortunately, stepped within before this strange thing had happened. She was herself in an excited mood, having passed through what she had during the past day, and having had her mind further disturbed by the tales she had gathered during her progress. Now here at the Mansion, where was always dignified composure and serene hospitality, to find such tardy admission and such hysterical welcome—it was too much! Her reflections were swift and angry, and while all still stood in the dark, as yet too surprised to move, she demanded, crisply: "I want Katharine."

"Come this way, Mrs. Sprigg. Let me take your hand and lead you. I'll soon get a light, and please excuse Alfaretta. I don't understand what has happened to her. Don't cling to me like that, child. You hinder me."

"Oh, didn't you see—It?" whispered the unhappy little maid, paying no heed to her mistress's words, but clinging all the closer to her in a fresh access of terror as she heard, or fancied that she did, footsteps on the piazza without.

Susanna's anger cooled in a new curiosity, and she said:

"You needn't bother to lead me, Madam Sturtevant, I know the ins an' outs of this old house pretty well, even if I don't come to it often. You go right on ahead an' strike a match; an' Alfy Brown, let go her skirt. Your manners this night ain't none your mistress's teachin', I know that. They must be some left over from the 'Farm.'"

Now Susanna must have been sorely tried to have reminded the girl of her unfortunate start in life, and Madam hastened to cover the remark by saying: "There, that's better!" and rising from the open fireplace where she had relighted the candle from the carefully covered embers. It had been so mild until now that only a fragment of fire had been kept upon the hearth, where, however, it was never permitted to wholly die "from equinox to equinox." Fortunately for the comfort of the household, there was woodland sufficient still belonging to the estate to supply all necessary fuel, and in cold weather this impoverished gentlewoman enjoyed her blazing wood fires—a luxury which even wealthy people cannot always command. Miss Maitland made it Moses' business to see that the Mansion wood-piles were high and broad, long before the autumn came, and the hardship of splitting smaller sticks for kitchen and kindling fell upon the reluctant Montgomery.

Susanna watched the candle-lighting with real admiration. Neat as she was herself, she had never yet attained to that exquisite daintiness with which Madam Sturtevant did all things; and she now exclaimed, with keen appreciation:

"My suz! You do beat all! Why, most anybody tryin' to light a taller candle by wood coals would ha' melted the candle—but you hain't dripped a drip. Where's the children? I've come for Katy. She's a terr'ble hand for runnin' away, or, ruther, for not bein' where she should be when wanted. The wind has riz awful. It don't rain none yet, but's goin' to right off. I didn't think to fetch an umberell an' couldn't have used it if I had. Not again' this blow. Alfy, you call Katharine, and we'll start back prompt. No, thank ye, Madam, I won't stop to set down, not this time. Eunice, she's alone with Moses so helpless, an' I don't believe half the shutters is tight nor nothin'. Seems if a body had more on their hands than they could 'tend to times like these. Why don't you move, Alfy? An' not stand stock starin' still, like an idjut? If the wind sounds that way indoors, what you s'pose it is outside? An' that child hain't got a thing on but that white ducky dress and maybe a hat. She wasn't fixed proper for livin' in the country, though she does become her clothes real likely. She's clear Maitland, Katy is, an' as like Johnny was as two peas in a pod. I can't help lovin' her, try as I will," concluded the widow, so exhausted by her own volubility that she unconsciously sat down to rest herself, even though she had earlier declined her hostess's offer of the spring-rocker by the sewing-table. "A chair 'at looks comf'table enough to take a nap in its own self," as she had once observed concerning it.

Thus enabled to edge in a remark of her own, Madam replied, with some anxiety in her tones:

"The little Katharine has not been here. Not that I know. Has she, Alfaretta?"

"I—I hain't seen her," faltered the maid, shivering as a fresh gust of wind rattled the casement and a flash of lightning made everything visible without. But she had closed her eyes against whatever might be revealed and still delayed her mistress's direction:

"Go and look for Montgomery and see if he knows anything about Katharine;" then, turning to Susanna, she added: "I am so glad that they are going to be such friends. It's a good thing for a growing boy to be associated with a young lady of his own—his own position in life."

Susanna sniffed. She was democratic by profession and did not feel called upon to explain that as a matter of fact there was nobody living so appreciative as herself of "good family"—as represented in Marsden by the Sturtevants and Maitlands. She merely ignored the remark, starting from her seat as a terrible blast set the old Mansion trembling on its stout beams and an east side shutter blew from its hinges.

"My suz! We've never had such a storm sence I can remember, an' Katy in nothin' but ducks! Eunice has wrote right away, soon's she made up her mind to keep her, to that stepmother o' hers to take an' buy the child some good strong shoes an' dark warm dresses, fit for a girl to wear in a country village. She's goin' to begin school, soon's town meetin's over an' Moses'll have time to drive her there. Oh, I forget he's broke. Well, she'll go sometime, if the proper clothes come an' things turn out accordin'. But come she must now, an' to oncet, if she's anywhere's hereabout, 'cause I dassent stay a minute more. I shall be blowed off my feet, I 'low, an' I wish, I do wish, I hadn't wore my best bunnit."

"Take it off and leave it here, Susanna. I will lend you a scarf to tie over your hair, and Montgomery shall carry it home to you in the morning. I will go myself and see if the children are on the place. Though I doubt it, if Alfaretta hasn't seen them, or if they haven't come in here to be with us during the storm. Maybe it will soon pass. Wouldn't you better wait and see?"

"Not a minute longer 'an to look," answered the widow, really more alarmed for the comfort of her home folks than for herself. Laying her bonnet carefully upon the side table, she followed Madam into the kitchen, yet would not permit that lady to explore the barn as she set out to do.

"Come along with me, Alfy, but get a lantern. I hear the barn door swingin' an' old Whitey mooin' as if even she was scared. You or Monty must ha' been careless about shuttin' up to-night, which uther one of you done it, or didn't do it."

A lantern was procured and lighted, but there Alfaretta's assistance ended. Nothing would have induced her to visit that barn again that night, no matter how well protected by such a valiant woman as the Widow Sprigg. As the latter disappeared toward the outbuildings, carefully shielding the lantern with her shawl, Alfaretta's conscience drove her to say:

"It ain't no use. She won't find him. He—he ain't there."

"Isn't there? Then why, child, did you do such a rude thing as to let her go on a useless errand? I really don't understand what has come over you to-night. You are trying my patience severely."

"Yes'm," admitted the bond-maid, meekly.

Madam laid her hand upon the girl's shoulder and turned her face toward the light of the candle which she was herself holding behind the uncurtained kitchen window, the better to guide Susanna on her way.

"Tell me, child, what has frightened you so? Do you know where my dear grandson is? It terrifies me to think he may be somewhere out-of-doors, unprotected in this tempest. Did he go fishing? Nutting? To play ball? Do you know where he is?"

"Yes'm," again answered the little maid, but to which of these several inquiries was not disclosed. At that moment a blinding flash of lightning illumined the whole space between house and barn, showing Susanna wildly flinging her arms aloft, her lantern flying in one direction, herself in another, while distinctly silhouetted against the glare was another figure, so strange and uncouth that even Madam retreated a pace in sudden alarm.

They could hear Susanna still screaming as she fled, but a second flash showed the man who had alarmed her standing motionless on the spot where they had discovered him.

Whoever or whatever he might be, it wasn't a pleasant situation for these two, so isolated from their neighbors, and without even Montgomery's presence. Mere lad as he was, he was still something masculine, and at least his grandmother believed him to be a very hero for courage. But he was not there to "protect" them from the possible annoyance of this unknown creature, and now, gently leading the frightened maid, Madam went back to her untasted supper and sat down in her place. She also motioned the girl to take a chair close beside her own, and when she had done this, again asked:

"What frightened you so, just as Widow Sprigg arrived? Did you see this man—outside—then?"

"I—I didn't see a man. I saw a face! I'd finished milkin' Whitey and a'ready 'twas gettin' dark awful fast an' early. I felt the wind blowin' and I knew the back shutters was loose. So I scuttled 'crost to pull 'em to, lest they got blowed clean away, an' there—there—right in the square of window by the old box-stalls was—was—the face! I got one look, 'cause first off I couldn't somehow move hand or foot, an' I saw how white it was, how its eyes blazed, how wild and stand-uppish its hair was, an' it smiled—Oh, what a dreadful smile! An' then I knew 'twas a ghost! It's just the night for 'em, such as I used to hear the old folks talk about out to the 'Farm,' An' which of us do you suppose, oh, which has got to die? 'Cause it's a 'call,' a 'warnin',' to somebody."

The little maid's terror was so real and her mental suffering so intense that the Madam pitied her profoundly, though she smiled as she answered:

"I wish it may prove nothing more troublesome than a 'ghost,' a creature of one's imagination. Ah, my child! When you reach my age you will know that the only 'ghosts' who can really trouble us are our unhappy memories. I suspect that it is one of those 'tramps,' for which Susanna is always looking, but who have thus far avoided peaceful Marsden. Unlucky woman! whose first meeting with her expected 'tramp' should be on such a night and alone. Wind or no wind, she'll make a short journey of the long road home."

Already, safe once more in the sheltered dining-room which was on the side of the house least exposed to the storm and that did not face the outbuildings, the housemistress's confidence returned. If only Montgomery were with her, so, that she knew him also safe, she would have been content. As it was, even, she began to think kindly and pityingly of whatever poor wretch had sought shelter at her door. If he didn't smoke, and so endanger the buildings, she wished he would seek cover with old Whitey till the storm was past.

Meanwhile, one crouching in the hay-strewn bay, hugging a squirming dog for company, and one lying upon a narrow stretcher beneath the eaves,—the missing Katharine and Montgomery listened to the roar of the tempest and believed that the very day of doom had arrived. Neither had ever heard anything like that wind. Indeed, none in Marsden ever had, and the morning was to reveal many ruined buildings and uprooted trees. But thus far the darkness hid all this, and Widow Sprigg raced homeward unharmed save by the rain, which now began to fall in torrents.

Miss Maitland was watching her arrival in great anxiety. She had early secured every door and shutter, save at this one window which commanded the path from the gate. Here she had placed a brightly burning lamp to act as beacon to the wanderers, and she had also set the fire to blazing brightly. Before the fire hung warm clothing for the pair, and, having done all that she could think of for their comfort, she had passed to and fro between the sitting-room and Moses' chamber. He was almost as uneasy as the storm itself; alternately berating himself for a "fool," and speculating upon the deacon's management of affairs at the barn.

"I'll bet—I'll bet a continental he never cut the fodder for the cattle but just give it to 'em hull! He was no 'count of a farmer, the deacon wasn't. Good man, yes. I ain't sayin' he ain't that; but did it ever strike you, Eunice, that most good folks is pesky stupid? Or 'clever' ones, uther? I call it plumb equal to tellin' you you're a reg'lar tomnoddy to say a fellar's uther 'clever' or 'good.' I 'low little stutterin' Monty Sturtevant could ha' done the chores well enough till I get 'round again, an' I could ha' bossed him." Then, after a moment: "But I can't boss the deacon."

"No, you poor old grumbler! I reckon he isn't that kind. And your judgment of your neighbors is a bit extreme. Never mind. It's such a good sign to hear you scold that I'm encouraged to think you'll soon be well again. Now I'll go down and be ready to open the door for Susanna and Katharine. It's terrible to have them exposed to this storm."

But there was nobody visible, and at length Miss Eunice felt assured that she should not see them till the tempest lulled. So she returned once more to the kitchen-chamber, to comfort its occupant and herself as well. She had just remarked, for the third time:

"No! I'm sure Elinor would never let them set out in such weather as this. She has kept them to supper, and I do hope Susanna will have forethought enough to decline the ham and bread she carried for Monty, and confine herself to whatever the family was to have had by itself. Susanna is very hearty, I'm glad to say—"

"Eats so much it makes her thin to carry it around!" growled Moses, interrupting. "As for Montgomery, that little shaver's never had—"

What he would have added is not known.

Out upon the kitchen stairs sounded the rush of sodden feet, which seemed to stumble from sheer weariness even in their maddened haste; and the next instant there burst into the room what looked like a wretched caricature of poor Susanna. Bonnetless and spectacle-less, her gray hair streaming in snake-like strands, her garments dripping pools, her fine black Sunday shawl trailing behind her like a splash of flowing ink, she dropped upon the floor gasping and sobbing, and, apparently, at her wits' end.

A second's hesitation at touching so draggled and dripping a creature held Eunice aloof; and then she was down beside her friend, wiping the rain-wet face and begging to be told what had befallen.

"Surely, something worse than a storm has brought you to this pass, my poor dear. You look frightened—you tremble—You—Oh, Susanna! Where is Katharine? Has harm happened her?"

"Her? 'Tain't her! It's me. It's come at last, an' I always—knew—it would. Oh, say! Am I alive or—or—dead?"

Then as the absurdity of her own question flashed upon her, she began to laugh hysterically, and soon to sob with equal fervor. She was wholly overdone and unnerved, and, realizing that nothing could be learned till she was calmer, her mistress put no further inquiries, but led her away down the stairs, still dripping moisture,—a fact that no stress of emotion could hide from the critical sight of two such housekeepers.

"Them stairs! An' I washin' 'em all up clean just afore sundown! Lucky I hadn't put down the carpet yet, though I'd laid out—Oh, my suz!"

This was the first coherent sentence, if such it can be called, which escaped the terrified woman, while she was being undressed and freshly clothed in the warm things Eunice had provided.

"Yes, dear heart. But never mind the stairs. Did you find Katharine?"

"Nuther hide nor hair of her. Likely she's gone visitin' some the village little girls. She's that friendly she's been into most every house a'ready. She's safe enough. She won't never come to harm, Katy won't. But, Eunice, he's come! I've seen him!"

"Who's come? What 'him,' dear?" asked the other, gently, and thinking that exposure and fright had made this usually clear-headed Susanna a little flighty. "Here, take a cup of tea. I made it fresh but a few minutes ago. It will refresh you and quiet you wonderfully."

Now, as a rule, the Widow Sprigg needed no urging to drink her favorite beverage, which, like many another countrywoman,—more's the pity!—she kept steeping on the stove all day long. But now, for an instant, she looked doubtfully upon the cup; then, as a sudden whim seized her, caught it up eagerly and again ascended the stairs to Moses' bedroom. He lay motionless, his leg kept taut by a ball and chain and his poor body encased in plaster, but he could use his arms and eyes, the one thrown restlessly here and there and the other glittering with impatient curiosity.

"Well, there, Moses Jones! How many times have you jeered an' gibed at me for believin' in 'tramps'? Wasn't 'none,' was there? Well, there is. I've seen him. He—he chased me! All the way from the Mansion till I got clean to the post-office—an' then—then—he—he cut for the woods! Oh, my suz! Be I dreamin' or awake?"

The recalling of her frightful experience again so unnerved her that she sat down trembling on the edge of Moses' cot, and would have spilled her tea had not Eunice caught the cup in time to prevent.

"You're crazy!" retorted Mr. Jones, unconvinced. "And there ain't no call, as I can see, for you to set down on my broke leg. That awful ball the doctor tied to it'll keep it straight enough, I 'low."

Susanna sprang up as if she had been tossed to her feet, her face quickly becoming normal and compassionate again.

"Oh, I didn't mean to do that! I hope I hain't hurt it none," she apologized, frankly distressed.

"Well, seein' 'at you didn't touch it, I 'low there ain't no great harm done. I was only providin' against futur' trouble. Now go on with your 'trampy' talk."

By this time Susanna was able to give an account of the man she had seen on Madam Sturtevant's premises, and who, when she ran, had soon followed in pursuit. According to her highly embellished version, his attire had been collected from somebody's rag-bag, his hair and beard had never known shears or razor, his eyes were as big as saucers and gleamed with an unholy light, and his color was like chalk. But fierce! There was no word could describe the ferocity of the terrible creature's pallid countenance! and, as for speed—Well, Susanna herself had made the record of her life, yet he, with several minutes' disadvantage, had actually overtaken her and grabbed at her shawl. Witness! said shawl dragging behind her when she entered.

"Hm-m! What puzzles me is that any tramp—any tramp in his senses—should take after an old woman like you, Susanna. An' how in reason did you get a chance to investigate the cut of his features an' the state of his wardrobe in the dark, as it is?" inquired Moses, humorously.

But there was no humor in Susanna's grim countenance, as she contemptuously replied:

"How but by the lightnin'? Playin' all around everything every minute, makin' more'n daylight to see by. An', though I was scared nigh to death, for the soul of me, I couldn't help lookin' 'round every now an' again to see what he was like. I'd never had a chance to see a tramp afore, an' I never expect to again, so I had to improve my opportunity, hadn't I? Scared or no scared."

This view of the situation made both her hearers laugh; but in Moses' mind was slowly growing a desperate regret, which finally expressed itself in the exclamation:

"An' to think I hadn't even been elected constable, an' hadn't no chance to arrest the first tramp an' vagrant ever set foot in this village of Marsden!"

Back at the Mansion there was no further disturbance. Madam Sturtevant comforted herself with the supposition that her grandson was at the home of some boyish chum or other; and she even ate a considerable portion of the now cold porridge, steadfastly refusing Alfy's entreaty to take some of the good things which Susanna had brought for him.

"You may eat your supper in here to-night, Alfaretta, at the little table; but that basket was for Montgomery, and we will leave it to him to open. We shall get our share of its contents, never fear."

With more faith in the lad's generosity, where appetite was concerned, than Alfaretta had, the grandmother set the basket aside in the closet, and took up her knitting of stockings for her boy's winter wear.

And then, as if he had felt himself under discussion, or more likely—as Alfy surmised—had smelled the odor of good things even through many partitions, the door softly opened, and there appeared a tumbled head, a frightened face, and a pair of beseeching eyes. Whatever reproof was in store for him, he meant those eyes should do their part toward modifying it.

And for a time all went well. Madam was so full of the incident of the tramp and the horror of the storm that she forgot to ask him where he had so long delayed, and how it chanced that he was so perfectly dry. However, this all came out of itself. While she was describing the gust which had blown the shutter free, he burst forth:

"I-I-I heard that! Yes, siree! An' I thought the whole r-r-r-roof was goin'. An' then I w-w-went to sleep a s-s-s-sp-ell. When I woke up, 'twas so p-p-pit-chy dark I dassent stay no l-l-longer."

With which he coolly sliced himself a portion of the ham which his grandmother had promptly produced. She watched him in silence for a moment, then, as a sudden thought occurred to her, demanded:

"Montgomery, have you been in the secret chamber again? Was Katharine with you?"

With his mouth full, he stammered: "Y-y-yes, I've been. You never said not. But K-K-Katharine she w-w-wasn't with me."

"Montgomery, where is she? It was for her Susanna came. Eunice does not know, nobody has seen her, can you tell where she is? You were at The Maples all day—you played with her—where is she?"

Even in her sternest moods, "Gram'ma" had never been like this. And all at once a horrible chill ran down poor Monty's back. Memory returned; all his treachery; his unchivalrous desertion of a helpless girl in a dangerous place; and, to his honor be it said, did for a moment turn him deadly sick. But his natural temperament soon rallied. Of course she would have found a way to get down and out. Yet,—and again he felt faint,—what if she had not? What if she had had to pass the hours of this dreadful storm on the top of a hay-mow under a barn roof, where, even on mild days, a strong breeze blew through.

Madam leaned forward, austere, intent. "My son, tell me everything."

Under the spell of those piercing eyes, he did tell. Indeed, he was glad to tell. He felt she would find a word of comfort for his remorseful conscience. Alas! the word she did find was simply this:

"Montgomery, put on your jacket and go to Aunt Eunice's at once."

"Gr-gr-gram'ma! In this awful s-s-storm? An' that t-t-tramp?"

There was no relenting. The gentlewoman's glance was now not only stern but scornful, as she returned:

"Are you a Sturtevant, and ask me for delay?"