“I’ve heard of a good many ghosts in my time,” he said, “but I never heard of one that could stand daylight or common-sense.  The idea of your bein’ troubled all this time by that snorin’ business or whatever ’tis.  Why didn’t you tell me about it?  I’d have had that spook out of that bedroom afore this, I bet you.”

“It seemed so silly,” confessed Thankful, “that I was ashamed to tell anybody.  But there’s somethin’ there.  I heard it the first night I came, and Rebecca Timpson heard it later on, and then Emily and I and Solomon heard it all together.”

“Yes.  Well, then, let’s see when you heard it.  Every time ’twas when there was a storm; rain and wind and the like of that, eh?”

“Yes.  I’ve slept in that room myself a good many times, but never when there was a gale of wind or rain.  That’s so; ’twas always in a storm that it came.”

“Um-hum.  And it always snored.  Ho! ho! that is funny!  A ghost with a snore.  Must have a cold in its head, I cal’late.”

“You wouldn’t laugh if you’d heard it last night.  And it didn’t snore the first time.  It said ‘Oh, Lord,’ then.”

“Humph! so you said.  Well, that does complicate things, I will give in.  The wind in a water-pipe might snore, but it couldn’t say ‘Oh, Lord!’ not very plain.  You heard that the first night, afore Kenelm and I got there.”

“Yes.  And there wasn’t another person in that house except Emily and me; I know that.”

“I wonder if you do know it. . . .  Well, I’ll have a whack at that room myself and if a spook starts snorin when I’m there I’ll—­I’ll put a clothespin on its nose, after I’ve thanked it for scarin’ old Sol into repentance and decency.  It took a spirit to do that.  No livin’ human could have worked that miracle.”

“I agree with you.  Well, now I know why he acted the way he did whenever Uncle Abner’s name was mentioned.  I have a feelin’—­at least I imagine there may have been somethin’ else, somethin’ we don’t know and never will know, between Solomon and my uncle.  There may be some paper, some agreement, hid around somewheres that is legally bindin’ on the old sinner.  I can’t hardly believe just breakin’ a promise would make him give anybody fifteen hundred dollars.”

“Maybe, but I don’t know; he’s always been superstitious and a great feller for Spiritu’list camp-meetin’s and so on.  And he was always regular at prayer-meetin’.  Sometimes that sort of a swab, knowin’ how mean he actually is, tries to square his meanness with the Almighty by bein’ prominent in the church.  There may be the kind of paper you say, but I shouldn’t wonder if ’twas just scare and a bad conscience.”

“Well, I’m grateful to him, anyhow.  And, as for John’s kindness, I—­I don’t know what to say.  Last night I thought this might be the blackest Christmas ever I had; but now it looks as if it might be one of the brightest.  And it’s all so strange, so strange it should have come on Christmas.  It seems as if the Lord had planned it so.”