The August moon swung high in the heavens, and the crickets chirped unbearably. The luminous dew lay heavily upon the surrounding fields, and now and then a stray breeze, amid the overhanging branches of the trees that lined the roadway, aroused in the consciousness of the single wayfarer a feeling closely akin to panic. When he reached the summit of the hill, he was trembling violently.

In the dooryard of the Jack-o’-Lantern, he paused. It was dark, save for a single round window. In an upper front room a night-lamp, turned low, gave one leering eye to the grotesque exterior of the house.

With his heart thumping loudly, Mr. Bradford leaned against a tree and divested himself of his shoes. From a package under his arm, he took out a pair of soft felt slippers, the paper rattling loudly as he did so. He put them on, hesitated, then went cautiously up the walk.

“In all my seventy-eight years,” he thought, “I have never done anything like this. If I had not promised the Colonel—but a promise to a dying man is sacred, especially when he is one’s best friend.”

The sound of the key in the lock seemed almost like an explosion of dynamite. Mr. Bradford wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead, turned the door slowly upon its squeaky hinges, and went in, feeling like a burglar.

“I am not a burglar,” he thought, his hands shaking. “I have come to give, not to take away.”

Fearfully, he tiptoed into the parlour, expecting at any moment to arouse the house. Feeling his way carefully along the wall, and guided by the moonlight which streamed in at the side windows, he came to the wing occupied by Mrs. Holmes and her exuberant offspring. Here he stooped, awkwardly, and slipped a sealed and addressed letter under the door, heaving a sigh of relief as he got away without having wakened any one.

The sounds which came from Mrs. Dodd’s room were reassuringly suggestive of sleep. Hastily, he slipped another letter under her door, then made his way cautiously to the kitchen. The missive intended for Mrs. Smithers was left on the door-mat outside, for, as Mr. Bradford well knew, the ears of the handmaiden were uncomfortably keen.

At the foot of the stairs he hesitated again, but by the time he reached the top, his heart had ceased to beat audibly. He tiptoed down the corridor to Uncle Israel’s room, then, further on, to Dick’s. The letter intended for Mr. Perkins was slipped under Elaine’s door, Mr. Bradford not being aware that the poet had changed his room. Having safely accomplished his last errand, the tension relaxed, and he went downstairs with more assurance, his pace being unduly hastened by a subdued howl from one of the twins.

Bidding himself be calm, he got to the front door, and drew a long breath of relief as he closed it noiselessly. There was a light in Mrs. Holmes’s room now, and Mr. Bradford did not wish to linger. He gathered up his shoes and fairly ran downhill, arriving at his office much shaken in mind and body, nearly two hours after he had started.

“I do not know,” he said to himself, “why the Colonel should have been so particular as to dates and hours, but he knew his own business best.” Then, further in accordance with his instructions, he burned a number of letters which could not be delivered personally.

If Mr. Bradford could have seen the company which met at the breakfast table the following morning, he would have been amply repaid for his supreme effort of the night before, had he been blessed with any sense of humour at all. The Carrs were untroubled, and Elaine appeared as usual, except for her haughty indifference to Mr. Perkins. She thought he had written a letter to himself and slipped it under her door, in order to compel her to speak to him, but she had tactfully avoided that difficulty by leaving it on his own threshold. Dick’s eyes were dancing and at intervals his mirth bubbled over, needlessly, as every one else appeared to think.

“I doesn’t know wot folks finds to laugh at,” remarked Mrs. Smithers, as she brought in the coffee; “that’s wot I doesn’t. It’s a solemn time, I take it, when the sheeted spectres of the dead walks abroad by night, that’s wot it is. It’s time for folks to be thinkin’ about their immortal souls.”

This enigmatical utterance produced a startling effect. Mr. Perkins turned a pale green and hastily excused himself, his breakfast wholly untouched. Mrs. Holmes dropped her fork and recovered it in evident confusion. Mrs. Dodd’s face was a bright scarlet and appeared about to burst, but she kept her lips compressed into a thin, tight line. Uncle Israel nodded over his predigested food. “Just so,” he mumbled; “a solemn time.”

Eagerly watching for an opportunity, Mrs. Holmes dived into the barn, and emerged, cautiously, with the spade concealed under her skirts. She carried it into her own apartment and hid it under Willie’s bed. Mrs. Smithers went to look for it a little later, and, discovering that it was unaccountably missing, excavated her own private spade from beneath the hay. During the afternoon, the poet was observed lashing the fire-shovel to the other end of a decrepit rake. Uncle Israel, after a fruitless search of the premises, actually went to town and came back with a bulky and awkward parcel, which he hid in the shrubbery.

Meanwhile, Willie had gone whimpering to Mrs. Dodd, who was in serious trouble of her own. “I’m afraid,” he admitted, when closely questioned.

“Afraid of what?” demanded his counsellor, sharply.

“I’m afraid of ma,” sobbed Willie. “She’s a-goin’ to bury me. She’s got the spade hid under my bed now.”

Sudden emotion completely changed Mrs. Dodd’s countenance. “There, there, Willie,” she said, stroking him kindly. “Where is your ma?”

“She’s out in the orchard with Ebbie and Rebbie.”

“Well now, deary, don’t you say nothin’ at all to your ma, an’ we’ll fool her. The idea of buryin’ a nice little boy like you! You just go an’ get me that spade an’ I’ll hide it in my room. Then, when your ma asks for it, you don’t know nothin’ about it. See?”

Willie’s troubled face brightened, and presently the implement was under Mrs. Dodd’s own bed, and her door locked. Much relieved in his mind and cherishing kindly sentiments toward his benefactor, Willie slid down the banisters, unrebuked, the rest of the afternoon.

Meanwhile Mrs. Dodd sat on the porch and meditated. “I’d never have thought,” she said to herself, “that Ebeneezer would intend that Holmes woman to have any of it, but you never can tell what folks’ll do when their minds gets to failin’ at the end. Ebeneezer’s mind must have failed dretful, for I know he didn’t make no promise to her, same as he did to me, an’ if she don’t suspect nothin’, what did she go an’ get the spade for? Dretful likely hand it is, for spirit writin’.”

Looking about furtively to make sure that she was not observed, Mrs. Dodd drew out of the mysterious recesses of her garments, the crumpled communication of the night before. It was dated, “Heaven, August 12th,” and the penmanship was Uncle Ebeneezer’s to the life.

“Dear Belinda,” it read. “I find myself at the last moment obliged to change my plans. If you will go to the orchard at exactly twelve o’clock on the night of August 13th, you will find there what you seek. Go straight ahead to the ninth row of apple trees, then seven trees to the left. A cat’s skull hangs from the lower branch, if it hasn’t blown down or been taken away. Dig here and you will find a tin box containing what I have always meant you to have.

“I charge you by all you hold sacred to obey these directions in every particular, and unless you want to lose it all, to say nothing about it to any one who may be in the house.

“I am sorry to put you to this inconvenience, but the limitations of the spirit world cannot well be explained to mortals. I hope you will make a wise use of the money and not spend it all on clothes, as women are apt to do.

“In conclusion, let me say that I am very happy in heaven, though it is considerably more quiet than any place I ever lived in before. I have met a great many friends here, but no relatives except my wife. Farewell, as I shall probably never see you again.

“Yours,

“P.S. All of your previous husbands are here, in the sunny section set aside for martyrs. None of them give you a good reputation.

“Don’t it beat all,” muttered Mrs. Dodd to herself, excitedly. “Here was Ebeneezer at my door last night, an’ I never knowed it. Sakes alive, if I had knowed it, I wouldn’t have slep’ like I did. Here comes that Holmes hussy. Wonder what she knows!”

“Do you believe in spirits, Mrs. Dodd?” inquired Mrs. Holmes, in a careless tone that did not deceive her listener.

“Depends,” returned the other, with an evident distaste for the subject.

“Do you believe spirits can walk?”

“I ain’t never seen no spirits walk, but I’ve seen folks try to walk that was full of spirits, and there wa’n’t no visible improvement in their steppin’.” This was a pleasant allusion to the departed Mr. Holmes, who was currently said to have “drunk hisself to death.”

A scarlet flush, which mounted to the roots of Mrs. Holmes’s hair, indicated that the shot had told, and Mrs. Dodd went to her own room, where she carefully locked herself in. She was determined to sit upon her precious spade until midnight, if it were necessary, to keep it.

Mrs. Smithers was sitting up in bed with the cold perspiration oozing from every pore, when the kitchen clock struck twelve sharp, quick strokes. The other clocks in the house took up the echo and made merry with it. The grandfather’s clock in the hall was the last to strike, and the twelve deep-toned notes boomed a solemn warning which, to more than one quaking listener, bore a strong suggestion of another world—an uncanny world at that.

“Guess I’ll go along,” said Dick to himself, yawning and stretching. “I might just as well see the fun.”

Mrs. Smithers, with her private spade and her odorous lantern, was at the spot first, closely seconded by Mrs. Dodd, in a voluminous garment of red flannel which had seen all of its best days and not a few of its worst. Trembling from head to foot, came Mrs. Holmes, carrying a pair of shears, which she had snatched up at the last moment when she discovered the spade was missing. Mr. Perkins, fully garbed, appeared with his improvised shovel. Uncle Israel, in his piebald dressing-gown, tottered along in the rear, bearing his spade, still unwrapped, his bedroom candle, and a box of matches. Dick surveyed the scene from a safe, shadowy distance, and on a branch near the skull, Claudius Tiberius was stretched at full length, purring with a loud, resonant purr which could be heard from afar.

After the first shock of surprise, which was especially keen on the part of Mrs. Dodd, when she saw Uncle Israel in the company, Mrs. Smithers broke the silence.

“It’s nothink more nor a wild-goose chase,” she said, resentfully. “A-gettin’ us all out’n our beds at this time o’ night! It’s a sufferin’ and dyin’ shame, that’s wot it is, and if sperrits was like other folks, ’t wouldn’t ’ave happened.”

“Sarah,” said Mrs. Dodd, firmly, “keep your mouth shut. Israel, will you dig?”

“We’ll all dig,” said Mrs. Holmes, in the voice of authority, and thereafter the dirt flew briskly enough, accompanied by the laboured breathing of perspiring humanity.

It was Uncle Israel’s spade that first touched the box, and, with a cry of delight, he stooped for it, as did everybody else. By sheer force of muscle, Mrs. Dodd got it away from him.

“This wrangle,” sighed Mr. Perkins, “is both unseemly and sordid. Let us all agree to abide by dear Uncle Ebeneezer’s last bequests.”

“There won’t be no desire not to abide by ’em,” snorted Mrs. Smithers, “wot with cats as can’t stay buried and sheeted spectres of the dead a-walkin’ through the house by night!”

By this time, Mrs. Dodd had the box open, and a cry of astonishment broke from her lips. Several heads were badly bumped in the effort to peep into the box, and an unprotected sneeze from Uncle Israel added to the general unpleasantness.

“You can all go away,” cried Mrs. Dodd, shrilly. “There’s two one-dollar bills here, two quarters, an’ two nickels an’ eight pennies. ’T aint nothin’ to be fit over.”

“But the letter,” suggested Mr. Perkins, hopefully. “Is there not a letter from dear Uncle Ebeneezer? Let us gather around the box in a reverent spirit and listen to dear Uncle Ebeneezer’s last words.”

“You can read ’em,” snapped Mrs. Holmes, “if you’re set on hearing.”

Uncle Israel wheezed so loudly that for the moment he drowned the deep purr of Claudius Tiberius. When quiet was restored, Mr. Perkins broke the seal of the envelope and unfolded the communication within. Uncle Israel held the dripping candle on one side and Mrs. Smithers the smoking lantern on the other, while near by, Dick watched the midnight assembly with an unholy glee which, in spite of his efforts, nearly became audible.

“How beautiful,” said Mr. Perkins, “to think that dear Uncle Ebeneezer’s last words should be given to us in this unexpected but original way.”

“Shut up,” said Mrs. Smithers, emphatically, “and read them last words. I’m gettin’ the pneumony now, that’s wot I am.”

“You’re the only one,” chirped Mrs. Dodd, hysterically. “The money in this here box is all old.” It was, indeed. Mr. Judson seemed to have purposely chosen ragged bills and coins worn smooth.

“‘Dear Relations,’” began Mr. Perkins. “‘As every one of you have at one time or another routed me out of bed to let you in when you have come to my house on the night train, and always uninvited——’”

“I never did,” interrupted Mrs. Holmes. “I always came in the daytime.”

“Nobody ain’t come at night,” explained Mrs. Smithers, “since ’e fixed the ’ouse over into a face. One female fainted dead away when ’er started up the hill and see it a-winkin’ at ’er, yes sir, that’s wot ’er did!”

“‘It seems only fitting and appropriate,’” continued Mr. Perkins, “‘that you should all see how it seems.’” The poet wiped his massive brow with his soiled handkerchief. “Dear uncle!” he commented.

“Yes,” wheezed Uncle Israel, “‘dear uncle!’ Damn his stingy old soul,” he added, with uncalled-for emphasis.

“It gives me pleasure to explain in this fashion my disposal of my estate,” the reader went on, huskily.

“Of all the connection on both sides, there is only one that has never been to see me, unless I’ve forgotten some, and that is my beloved nephew, James Harlan Carr.”

“Him,” creaked Uncle Israel. “Him, as never see Ebeneezer.”

“He has never,” continued the poet, with difficulty, “rung my door bell at night, nor eaten me out of house and home, nor written begging letters—” this phrase was well-nigh inaudible—“nor had fits on me——”

Here there was a pause and all eyes were fastened upon Uncle Israel.

“’T wa’n’t a fit!” he screamed. “It was a involuntary spasm brought on by takin’ two searchin’ medicines too near together. ’T wa’n’t a fit!”

“Nor children——”

“The idea!” snapped Mrs. Holmes. “Poor little Ebbie and Rebbie had to be born somewhere.”

“Nor paralysis——”

“That was Cousin Si Martin,” said Mrs. Dodd, half to herself. “He was took bad with it in the night.”

“He has never come to spend Christmas with me and remained until the ensuing dog days, nor sent me a crayon portrait of himself”—Mr. Perkins faltered here, but nobly went on—“nor had typhoid fever, nor finished up his tuberculosis, nor cut teeth, nor set the house on fire with a bath cabinet——”

At this juncture Uncle Israel was so overcome with violent emotion that it was some time before the reading could proceed.

“Never having come into any kind of relations with my dear nephew, James Harlan Carr,” continued Mr. Perkins, in troubled tones, “I have shown my gratitude in this humble way. To him I give the house and all my furniture, my books and personal effects of every kind, my farm in Hill County, two thousand acres, all improved and clear of incumbrance, except blooded stock,——”

“I never knowed ’e ’ad no farm,” interrupted Mrs. Smithers.

“And the ten thousand and eighty-four dollars in the City Bank which at this writing is there to my credit, but will be duly transferred, and my dear Rebecca’s diamond pin to be given to my beloved nephew’s wife when he marries. It is all in my will, which my dear friend Jeremiah Bradford has, and which he will read at the proper time to those concerned.”

“The old snake!” shrieked Mrs. Holmes.

“Further,” went on the poet, almost past speech by this time, “I direct that the remainder of my estate, which is here in this box, shall be divided as follows:

“Eight cents each to that loafer, Si Martin, his lazy wife, and their eight badly brought-up children, with instructions to be generous to any additions to said children through matrimony or natural causes; Fanny Wood and that poor, white-livered creature she married, thereby proving her own idiocy if it needed proof; Uncle James’s cross-eyed third wife and her two silly daughters; Rebecca’s sister’s scoundrelly second husband, with his foolish wife and their little boy with a face like a pug dog; Uncle Jason, who has needed a bath ever since I knew him—I want he should spend his legacy for soap—and his epileptic stepson, whose name I forget, though he lived with me five years hand-running; lying Sally Simmons and her half-witted daughter; that old hen, Belinda Dodd; that skunk, Harold Vernon Perkins, who never did a stroke of honest work in his life till he began to dig for this box; monkey-faced Lucretia and the four thieving little Riley children, who are likely to get into prison when they grow up; that human undertaker’s waggon, Betsey Skiles, and her two impudent nieces; that grand old perambulating drug store, Israel Skiles; that Holmes fool with the three reprints of her ugliness—eight cents apiece, and may you get all possible good out of it.

“Dick Chester, however, having always paid his board, and tried to be a help to me in several small ways, and in spite of having lived with me eight Summers or more without having been asked to do so, gets two thousand two hundred and fifty dollars which is deposited for him in the savings department of the Metropolitan Bank, plus the three hundred and seventy dollars he paid me for board without my asking him for it. Sarah Smithers, being in the main a good woman, though sharp-tongued at times, and having been faithful all the time my house has been full of lowdown cusses too lazy to work for their living, gets twelve hundred and fifty dollars which is in the same bank as Dick’s. The rest of you take your eight cents apiece and be damned. You can get the money changed at the store. If any have been left out, it is my desire that those remembered should divide with the unfortunate.

“If you had not all claimed to be Rebecca’s relatives, you would have been kicked out of my house years ago, but since writing this, I have seen Rebecca and made it right with her. It was not her desire that I should be imposed upon.

“Get out of my house, every one of you, before noon to-morrow, and the devil has my sincere sympathy when you go to live with him and make hell what you have made my house ever since Rebecca’s death. Get out!!!

The letter was badly written and incoherent, yet there could be no doubt of its meaning, nor of the state of mind in which it had been penned. For a moment, there was a tense silence, then Mrs. Dodd tittered hysterically.

“We thought diamonds was goin’ to be trumps,” she observed, “an’ it turned out to be spades.”

Uncle Israel wheezed again and Mrs. Smithers smacked her lips with intense satisfaction. Mrs. Holmes was pale with anger, and, under cover of the night, Dick sneaked back to his room, shame-faced, yet happy. Claudius Tiberius still purred, sticking his claws into the bark with every evidence of pleasure.

“I do not know,” said Mr. Perkins, sadly, running his fingers through his mane, “whether we are obliged to take as final these vagaries of a dying man. Dear Uncle Ebeneezer could not have been sane when he penned this cruel letter. I do not believe it was his desire to have any of us go away before the usual time.” Under cover of these forgiving sentiments, he pocketed all the money in the box.

“Me neither,” said Mrs. Dodd. “Anyhow, I’m goin’ to stay. No sheeted spectre can’t scare me away from a place I’ve always stayed in Summers, ’specially,” she added, sarcastically, “when I’m remembered in the will.”

Mrs. Smithers clucked disagreeably and went back to the house. Uncle Israel looked after her with dismay. “Do you suppose,” he queried, in falsetto, “that she’ll tell the Carrs?”

“Hush, Israel,” replied Mrs. Dodd. “She can’t tell them Carrs about our diggin’ all night in the orchard, ’cause she was here herself. They didn’t get no spirit communication an’ they won’t suspect nothin’. We’ll just stay where we be an’ go on ’s if nothin’ had happened.”

Indeed, this seemed the wisest plan, and, shivering with the cold, the baffled ones filed back to the Jack-o’-Lantern. “How did you get out, Israel?” whispered Mrs. Dodd, as they approached the house.

The old man snickered. It was the only moment of the evening he had thoroughly enjoyed. “The same spirit that give me the letter, Belinda,” he returned, pleasantly, “also give me a key. You didn’t think I had no flyin’ machine, did you?”

“Humph” grunted Mrs. Dodd. “Spirits don’t carry no keys!”

At the threshold they paused, the sensitive poet quite unstrung by the night’s adventure. From the depths of the Jack-o’-Lantern came a shrill, infantile cry.

“Is that Ebbie,” asked Mrs. Dodd, “or Rebbie?”

Mrs. Holmes turned upon her with suppressed fury. “Don’t you ever dare to allude to my children in that manner again,” she commanded, hoarsely.

“What is their names?” quavered Uncle Israel, lighting his candle.

“Their names,” returned Mrs. Holmes, with a vast accession of dignity, “are Gladys Gwendolen and Algernon Paul! Good night!”

Just before dawn, a sheeted spectre appeared at the side of Sarah Smither’s bed, and swore the trembling woman to secrecy. It was long past sunrise before the frightened handmaiden came to her senses enough to recall that the voice of the apparition had been strangely like Mrs. Dodd’s.