My seeing was limited to that one object, but it was quite enough.  I went up the hill thinking over the terrible secret hidden in my breast.

I longed to tell some one, but was ashamed; and, when asked why I was so pale and absent-minded, I answered with a gloomy smile—­

“It is the clams.”

All day I hid my sufferings pretty well, but as night approached and I thought of sleeping again in that haunted cottage, my heart began to fail.  As we sat telling stories in the dusk, a bright idea came into my head.

I would relate my ghost story, and rouse the curiosity of my hearers, so that some of them would offer to stay at the cottage in hopes of seeing the spirit of the restless Tucker.

Cheered by this fancy, when my turn came I made a thrilling tale about Bezee Tucker and my night’s adventure.  After my hearers were worked up to a proper state of excitement, I paused for applause.

It came in a most unexpected form, however, for Mrs. Grant burst out laughing, and the two boys—­Johnny and Joe—­rolled about in convulsions of merriment.

Much displeased, I demanded the cause of their laughter, and then joined in the general shout when Mrs. Grant informed me that Bezee Tucker lived, died in, and haunted the tumble-down house at the other end of the lane, and not the cottage where I was staying.

“Then who or what made those mysterious noises?” I asked, relieved but rather displeased at the downfall of my romance.

“My brother Seth,” replied Mrs. Grant, still laughing.  “I thought you might be afraid to be there all alone, so he slipped into the bed-room, and I forgot to tell you.  He’s a powerful snorer, and that’s one of the awful sounds.

“The other was the dripping of salt water; for you wanted some, and the girl got it in a leaky pail.  Seth swept out the water when he left the cottage early in the morning.”

I said nothing about having seen through the keyhole the harmless razor; but wishing to get some praise for my heroic encounter with the burglar, I mildly asked if it was the custom in York for men as well as turkeys to roost in trees.

Another burst of laughter from the boys did away with my last hope of glory.  As soon as he could speak, Joe answered—­

“Johnny planned to be up early to pick the last cherries off that tree.  I wanted to get ahead of him, and as I was going a-fishing, I went off quietly before daylight.”

“Did you get the cherries?” I asked, bound to have some laugh on my side.

“Guess I didn’t,” grumbled Joe, rubbing his knees, while Johnny added—­

“He got a horrid scare and a right good scraping, for he didn’t know any one was down there.  Couldn’t go a-fishing, either—­he was so lame—­and I had the cherries after all.  Served him right, didn’t it?”

No answer was necessary.  Mrs. Grant went off to repeat the tale in the kitchen, and the sounds of hearty laughter that I heard, assured me that Seth was enjoying the joke as well as the rest of us.