“Let Mary open the door when she rings,” warned his mother. “It will be the first time our doorbell rings for a visitor—quite an event, Mary! I am sure John’s face is dirty.”
“I’m not very tidy myself,” said Mary, taking off her apron and the dusting-cap which covered her curls, and rolling down her sleeves.
The latch of the little garden gate clicked while they were speaking, and looking out of the upstairs hall window Mary saw a girl of about her own age, thirteen or fourteen, coming up the path. She wore a pretty blue sailor suit and a broad hat, and her hair hung in two long flaxen braids down her back. Mary wore her own brown curls tied back with a ribbon. On her arm the visitor carried a large covered basket.
“It’s one of the neighbors, I suppose,” said Mrs. Corliss, attempting a hasty toilet. “Go to the door, Mary, as soon as she rings, and ask her to come in. Even if we are not settled yet, it is not too soon to be hospitable.”
Mary listened eagerly for the bell. Their first caller in Crowfield looked like a very nice little person. Perhaps she was going to be Mary’s friend.
But the bell did not ring. Instead, Mary presently heard a little click; and then a voice in the hall below called, apparently through the keyhole of the closed door,—“Not at home.”
There was a pause, and again,—“Not at home.” A third time the tired, monotonous voice declared untruthfully, “Not at home.” Then there was silence.
“John!” cried Mary, horrified. For she thought her brother was playing some naughty trick. What did he mean by such treatment of their first caller? Mary ran down the stairs two steps at a time, and there she found John in the hall, staring with wide eyes at the front door.
“What made you—?” began Mary.
“I didn’t!” protested John. “It was—Something, I don’t know What, that spoke. When she pushed the bell-button it didn’t ring, but it made that. And now I guess she’s gone off mad!”