“That ain’t Bill!” exclaimed Jaroth.  “That’s as sure as you’re a foot high.  Nor yet it ain’t his wife.  If either one of them has cried since they were put into short clothes I miss my guess.  Huh!”

He hesitated, standing in the snow half way between the pung and the snow-smothered door of the hut.  Sheltered as it had been by the hill and by the woods, the hut was not masked so much by the drifted snow on its front.  They could see the upper part of the door-casing.

“By gravy!” ejaculated Mr. Jaroth, “it don’t sound human.  I can’t make it out.  Funny things they say happen up here in these woods.  I wouldn’t be a mite surprised if that crying—­or——­”

He hesitated while the boys and girls, and even Mr. Gordon, stared amazedly at him.

“Who do you think it is?” asked Uncle Dick finally.

“Well, it ain’t Bill,” grumbled Jaroth.

The sobbing continued.  So engaged was the person weeping in the sorrow that convulsed him, or her, that the jingling of the bells as the horses shook their heads or the voices of those in the pung did not attract attention.

Jaroth stood in the snow and neither advanced nor retreated.  It really did seem as though he was afraid to approach nearer to the hut on the mountain-side!

“That is a girl or a woman in there,” Bob declared.

“Huh!” exclaimed Bobby sharply.  “It might be a boy.  Boys cry sometimes.”

“Really?” said Timothy.  “But you never read of crying boys except in humorous verses.  They are not supposed to cry.”

“Well,” said Betty, suddenly hopping out of the sleigh, “we’ll never find out whether it is a girl or a boy if we wait for Mr. Jaroth, it seems.”

She started for the door of the hut.  Bob hopped out after her in a hurry.  And he took with him the snow-shovel Jaroth had brought along to use in clearing the drifts away if they chanced to get stuck.

“You’d better look out,” said Jaroth, still standing undecided in the snow.

“For what?” asked Bob, hurrying to get before Betty.

“That crying don’t sound natural.  Might he a ha’nt.  Can’t tell.”

“Fancy!” whispered Betty in glee.  “A great big man like him afraid of a ghost—­and there isn’t such a thing!”

“Don’t need to be if he is afraid of it,” returned Bob in the same low tone.  “You can be afraid of any fancy if you want to.  It doesn’t need to exist.  I guess most fears are of things that don’t really exist Come on, now.  Let me shovel this drift away.”

He set to work vigorously on the snow heap before the door.  Mr. Gordon, seeing that everything possible was being done, let the young people go ahead without interference.  In two minutes they could see the frozen latch-string that was hanging out.  Whoever was in the hut had not taken the precaution to pull in the leather thong.

“Go ahead, Betty,” said Bob finally.  “You push open the door.  I’ll stand here ready to beat ’em down with the shovel if they start after you.”