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“S’Gordon won’t care,” grunted Moses. “She never had to wear Par’s old pants, an’ she won’t un’erstan’ how a feller feels.” In his anticipation of the Sunday afternoon treat in store for him, Moses dreamed all that night of little dark-skinned men running round after him with bowls of rice and jabbing him with chop-sticks. “Why do you think that’s so dreadful?”.

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“She must come to visit us sometime.” He was not more inquisitive than other boys, yet the mystery, the many uncanny tales told of the old house, fired him with a desire to know its secrets. Long before he was born a murder had left its stain there. The owners, suspected but unconvicted, moved away; and for years the house stared vacantly at passers. The coming of the Italians had only increased its bad name. Late travellers on the lonely road declared that shadowy forms and flickering lights passed the lower windows and down into the cavernous basement; yet no sounds ever came from behind the barred doors. “By heck! Flash is all right.” The ladder fairly creaked under the portly lady, and Miss Gordon felt relieved when the loft was reached in safety. Mrs. Bliggins made no remark, but smiled placidly. The three stood at the landing and listened to the childish entertainer..