“Yes—­yes,” answered Emily.  “We heard you, but—­but what was it that snored?  What was the ghost?”

Captain Obed burst into a shout of laughter.  “There he is,” he said, pointing.

Thankful and Emily looked.

“What?” cried the latter.

“The pig?” exclaimed Thankful.

“That’s what.  Georgie gave me a hint when he and I was out here just now.  Old Pat was asleep way in back there and snorin’ like a steam engine.  And Georgie said he never slept there unless ’twas a storm, rainin’ same as ’tis now.  And every time you heard the—­ho! ho!—­the ghost, ’twas on a stormy night.  It stormed the night you got here, and when Becky Timpson had her warnin’, and last night when Sol Cobb got his.  Ho! ho! ho!  Patrick Henry’s the ghost.  Well, he’s a healthy old spirit.”

Emily laughed until the tears came into her eyes.

“The pig!” she cried.  “Oh, Aunt Thankful!  You and I were frightened almost to death last night—­and of that creature there.  Oh, dear me!”

Thankful laughed, too, but she was not fully convinced.

“Maybe ’twas the pig that snored,” she admitted.  “And of course whatever we heard came up that pipe hole.  But there was no pig there on that first night; I didn’t buy the pig until long afterwards.  And, besides, what I heard that night talked; it said, ‘Oh, Lord!’ Patrick Henry may be a smart pig, but he can’t talk.”

This was something of a staggerer, but the captain was still certain he was on the right track.

“Then somethin’ else was there,” he declared.  “Somebody was down under the house here, that’s sartin.  Who could it have been?  Never mind; I’ll find out.  We’ll clear up the whole of this ghost business, now we’ve got started.  Maybe we can find some hint in there now.  John, go up and fetch a lantern, there’s a good fellow, and we’ll have a look.”

John brought the lantern and by its light the two men explored the recesses of Patrick Henry’s bed chamber.  When they emerged, covered with dust and cobwebs, the captain held something in his hand.

“I don’t know what ‘tis,” he said.  “Maybe nothin’ of any account, but ’twas trod down in the corner close to the wall.  Humph?  Eh?  Why, it’s a mitten, ain’t it?”

It was a mitten, a much worn one, and on the inside of the wrist-hand were worked three letters.

“K.  I. P.” read Captain Obed.  “What’s ‘K.  I. P.’ stand for?”

Imogene, who had joined the group, clapped her hands.

“I know,” she cried.  “Kenelm Issachar Parker.”

Thankful nodded.  “That’s it,” she agreed.  “And—­and—­why, now I come to think of it, I remember hearin’ Hannah pitchin’ into Kenelm that first mornin’ after our night at her house, for losin’ his umbrella and a mitten.”