“Pouf!” scoffed Everett.  “My father says there aren’t any such things as ghosts.  I wouldn’t be a fraidy cat, Ann.”

“I’m not a fraidy cat,” pouted the girl.  “I always go upstairs alone, don’t I, Horace?”

Another answer in the affirmative, and Horace proceeded to roll the train back over the carpet.

“If you had any mother,” said Everett, “she’d tell you there weren’t any ghosts.  My mother tells me that.”

“I haven’t any mother,” sighed the little girl, listlessly folding her hands in her lap.

“Nor any father, either,” supplemented Horace, with seemingly no thought of the magnitude of his statement.  “I don’t believe in ghosts, anyhow!”

He glanced up as he spoke, and the train fell with a bang to the floor.  Everett Brimbecomb dropped the toy he held in his hand, and Ann bounded from her chair.  A white face with wide eyes, staring through scraggly gray hair, appeared at the window.  For only an instant it pressed against the pane, then vanished as if it had never been.

“It was a woman,” gasped Horace, “or was it a—­”

“It wasn’t a ghost,” interrupted Everett stoutly.  “I dare follow it out there.  Look at me!”

He straightened his shoulders, threw up his dark head, and opened the door leading to the narrow walk at the side of the house.  In another moment the watching boy and girl at the window saw him dart into the hedge and a minute later emerge through it, picking his way among the ancient graves.  Suddenly from behind a tall monument stole a figure, and as it approached the solemn eyes of the apparition smiled in dull wonder on Everett Brimbecomb.

Scraggy held out her hands.  “Don’t run away, little ’un,” she whispered.  “There be bats flyin’ about in my head; but my cat won’t hurt ye.”

She passed one arm about the snarling creature perched on her shoulder; but the cat with a hiss only raised himself higher.

“Don’t spit at the pretty boy, Kitty—­pretty pussy, black pussy!” wheedled the woman.  “He won’t hurt ye, childy.  Come nearer, will ye?  This be a good cat.”

“Are you a ghost?” demanded Everett, edging into the light.

“Nope, I ain’t no ghost.  I love ye, pretty boy.  Ye won’t tell no one that I speak to ye, will ye?  I ain’t doin’ no hurt.”

“What do you carry that cat for, and what’s your name?” demanded Everett insolently; for the proud young eyes had noticed the disheveled figure.  “If any one of our men see you about here, they’ll shoot you.  I’d shoot you and your cat, too, if I had my father’s gun!”

Scraggy smiled wanly.  “Screech Owl’s my name,” said she.  “They call me that ’cause I’m batty.  But ye wouldn’t hurt me, little ’un, ’cause I love ye.  How old be ye?”

“Six years old; but it isn’t any of your business.  Crazy people ought to be locked up.  You’d better go away from here.  My father owns that house, and—­don’t you follow me through the hedge.  Get back, I say!  If I call Malcolm—­”