“Hit wa’n’t long atter dat befo’ Mars Marrabo sol’ a piece er his track er lan’ ter Mars Dugal’ McAdoo,—­my ole marster,—­en dat ’s how de ole school’ouse happen to be on yo’ place.  Wen de wah broke out, de school stop’, en de ole school’ouse be’n stannin’ empty ever sence,—­dat is, ‘cep’n’ fer de ha’nts.  En folks sez dat de ole school’ouse, er any yuther house w’at got any er dat lumber in it w’at wuz sawed out’n de tree w’at Sandy wuz turnt inter, is gwine ter be ha’nted tel de las’ piece er plank is rotted en crumble’ inter dus’.”

Annie had listened to this gruesome narrative with strained attention.

“What a system it was,” she exclaimed, when Julius had finished, “under which such things were possible!”

“What things?” I asked, in amazement.  “Are you seriously considering the possibility of a man’s being turned into a tree?”

“Oh, no,” she replied quickly, “not that;” and then she murmured absently, and with a dim look in her fine eyes, “Poor Tenie!”

We ordered the lumber, and returned home.  That night, after we had gone to bed, and my wife had to all appearances been sound asleep for half an hour, she startled me out of an incipient doze by exclaiming suddenly,—­

“John, I don’t believe I want my new kitchen built out of the lumber in that old schoolhouse.”

“You wouldn’t for a moment allow yourself,” I replied, with some asperity, “to be influenced by that absurdly impossible yarn which Julius was spinning to-day?”

“I know the story is absurd,” she replied dreamily, “and I am not so silly as to believe it.  But I don’t think I should ever be able to take any pleasure in that kitchen if it were built out of that lumber.  Besides, I think the kitchen would look better and last longer if the lumber were all new.”

Of course she had her way.  I bought the new lumber, though not without grumbling.  A week or two later I was called away from home on business.  On my return, after an absence of several days, my wife remarked to me,—­

“John, there has been a split in the Sandy Run Colored Baptist Church, on the temperance question.  About half the members have come out from the main body, and set up for themselves.  Uncle Julius is one of the seceders, and he came to me yesterday and asked if they might not hold their meetings in the old schoolhouse for the present.”

“I hope you didn’t let the old rascal have it,” I returned, with some warmth.  I had just received a bill for the new lumber I had bought.

“Well,” she replied, “I couldn’t refuse him the use of the house for so good a purpose.”

“And I’ll venture to say,” I continued, “that you subscribed something toward the support of the new church?”

She did not attempt to deny it.

“What are they going to do about the ghost?” I asked, somewhat curious to know how Julius would get around this obstacle.

“Oh,” replied Annie, “Uncle Julius says that ghosts never disturb religious worship, but that if Sandy’s spirit should happen to stray into meeting by mistake, no doubt the preaching would do it good.”