“Well, Emily, it’s all such perfect foolishness.  You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Neither do I. Whatever it is that snores and groans in that little back room ain’t—­”

“Auntie!  What do you mean?”

Thankful was cornered.  Her attempts at evasion were useless and, little by little, Emily drew from her the story of the little back bedroom, of her own experience there the night of their first visit, of what Winnie S. had said concerning the haunting of the “Cap’n Abner place,” and of Miss Timpson’s “warning.”  She told it in a low tone, so as not to awaken Georgie, and, as she spoke, the wind shrieked and wailed and groaned, the blinds creaked, the water dripped and gurgled in the gutters, and the shadows outside the circle of light from the little hand lamp were black and threatening.  Emily, as she listened, felt the cold shivers running up and down her spine.  It is one thing to scoff at superstition in the bright sunlight; it is quite another to listen to a tale like this on a night like this in a house a hundred years old.  Miss Howes scoffed, it is true, but the scoffing was not convincing.

“Nonsense!” she said, stoutly.  “A ghost that snores?  Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“Nobody ever did, I guess,” Thankful admitted.  “It’s all too silly for anything, of course.  I know it’s silly; but, Emily, there’s somethin’ queer about that room.  I told you what I heard; somethin’ or somebody said, ‘Oh, Lord!’ as plain as ever I heard it said.  And somethin’ or somebody snored when Miss Timpson was there.  And, of course, when they tell me how old Mr. Eldredge snored in that very room when he was dyin’, and how Miss Timpson’s sister snored when she was sick, it—­it—­”

“Oh, stop, Auntie!  You will have me believing in—­in things, if you keep on.  It’s nonsense and you and I will prove it so before I go back to Middleboro.  Now you must go to bed.”

“Yes, I’m goin’.  Well, if there is a ghost in that room it’ll have its hands full with Sol Cobb.  He’s a tough old critter, if ever there was one.  Good night, Emily.”

“Good night, Aunt Thankful.  Don’t worry about the—­ha! ha!—­ghost, will you?”

“No, I’ve got enough to worry about this side of the grave. . . .  Mercy! what’s the matter?”

“Nothing!  I—­I thought I heard a noise in—­in the hall.  I didn’t though.”

“No, course you didn’t.  Shall I go to your room with you?”

“No indeed!  I—­I should be ashamed to have you.  Where is Imogene?”

“She’s up in her room.  She went to bed early.  Goodness!  Hear that wind.  It cries like—­like somethin’ human.”

“It’s dreadful.  It is enough to make anyone think. . . .  There!  If you and I talk any longer we shall both be behaving like children.  Good night.”

“Good night, Emily.  Is Georgie asleep at last?”