“I must get well acquainted with that man next summer,” said the Story Girl.  “If I put it off any longer it will be too late.  I’m growing so fast, Aunt Olivia says I’ll have to wear ankle skirts next summer.  If I begin to look grown-up he’ll get frightened of me, and then I’ll never find out the Golden Milestone mystery.”

“Do you think he’ll ever tell you who Alice is?” I asked.

“I have a notion who Alice is already,” said the mysterious creature.  But she would tell us nothing more.

When the jelly cookies were all eaten it was high time to be moving homeward, for when the dark comes down there are more comfortable places than a rustling maple wood and the precincts of a possibly enchanted spring.  When we reached the foot of the orchard and entered it through a gap in the hedge it was the magical, mystical time of “between lights.”  Off to the west was a daffodil glow hanging over the valley of lost sunsets, and Grandfather King’s huge willow rose up against it like a rounded mountain of foliage.  In the east, above the maple woods, was a silvery sheen that hinted the moonrise.  But the orchard was a place of shadows and mysterious sounds.  Midway up the open space in its heart we met Peter; and if ever a boy was given over to sheer terror that boy was Peter.  His face was as white as a sunburned face could be, and his eyes were brimmed with panic.

“Peter, what is the matter?” cried Cecily.

“There’s—­something—­in the house, ringing A bell,” said Peter, in a shaking voice.  Not the Story Girl herself could have invested that “something” with more of creepy horror.  We all drew close together.  I felt a crinkly feeling along my back which I had never known before.  If Peter had not been so manifestly frightened we might have thought he was trying to “pass a joke” on us.  But such abject terror as his could not be counterfeited.

“Nonsense!” said Felicity, but her voice shook.  “There isn’t a bell in the house to ring.  You must have imagined it, Peter.  Or else Uncle Roger is trying to fool us.”

“Your Uncle Roger went to Markdale right after milking,” said Peter.  “He locked up the house and gave me the key.  There wasn’t a soul in it then, that I’m sure of.  I druv the cows to the pasture, and I got back about fifteen minutes ago.  I set down on the front door steps for a moment, and all at once I heard a bell ring in the house eight times.  I tell you I was skeered.  I made a bolt for the orchard—­and you won’t catch me going near that house till your Uncle Roger comes home.”

You wouldn’t catch any of us doing it.  We were almost as badly scared as Peter.  There we stood in a huddled demoralized group.  Oh, what an eerie place that orchard was!  What shadows!  What noises!  What spooky swooping of bats!  You couldn’t look every way at once, and goodness only knew what might be behind you!