Neither Russ nor Rose said anything then about the ghost.  But they saw that their father and Grandpa Ford were talking together in one corner of the room.

“Maybe they’re talking about that,” whispered Rose.

“Yes,” agreed Russ, also in a whisper.  “But let’s get something to eat, and then we can hunt by ourselves.  You’re not afraid, are you, Rose?”

“No.  Are you?”

“I—­I guess not!  No, I’m not afraid,” and Russ spoke more firmly now.  “It’s so nice and light here I’m not a bit afraid,” he went on.

Grandma Ford led the six little Bunkers out to the dining-room, where the table was already set waiting for them.  There seemed to be plenty of bread and jam on it, and other things, too.

“Can’t I tell my riddle now?” asked Laddie when they were all seated at the table and had eaten something.  “Don’t you want to hear it, Grandma?”

“Yes, of course I do, my dear.  What is it?”

“What kind of a tree would you rather drive?” asked Laddie.  “That’s the riddle.  Russ says you can’t drive a tree, that you can only climb it or chop it down, or burn it up.”

“And I said you could sit in the shade of it,” added Rose.

“Well, all of those things can be done to trees,” said Grandma Ford with a smile, as she gave Mun Bun some more bread and jam.  “I think I should like best sitting in the shade of a tree.  But what is your riddle, Laddie?”

“Oh, you have to guess it!” exclaimed the little fellow.  “I ask you the question and you have to answer it.  That’s what a riddle is for.  Now, I ask you, what kind of a tree would you rather drive?”

Grandma Ford thought for a moment, and then said: 

“A dogwood tree if it wouldn’t bite.”

“Is there a dogwood tree?” asked Laddie.

“Yes,” answered Grandma Ford.  “And very pretty blossoms it has on it, too.  Is that the answer to your riddle?”

“No’m,” answered Laddie.  “It’s a horse chestnut tree.  That’s the kind you’d rather drive, wouldn’t you?  A horse chestnut!” and he laughed gleefully.

“Well, I guess that would be the most proper sort of tree to drive,” said Grandpa Ford, who came in just then with Daddy Bunker.

“And I’ll take my dogwood tree along to run under the wagon that your horse chestnut is pulling,” said Grandma Ford.

“What makes some dogs—­the kind with black spots on—­trot under wagons?” asked Vi.  “Is it so they won’t get rained on?”

“I guess that’s as good a reason as any,” said her father.

So the six little Bunkers ate their supper—­rather a late one, for the storm had delayed them—­and then they sat about and talked for a while.  Grandma Ford asked the children all about themselves, where they had been visiting and so on, and they told her about having been to Grandma Bell’s, to Aunt Jo’s, and to Cousin Tom’s.

“It was warm while we were at all those places,” said Rose.  “And now it is winter.”