"Is it the ghost?" faltered Cyril, whose imagination had been much exercised about the haunted house.
Cynthy did not smile; she looked at the figure in the doorway with a pale, frightened face. "It is Mr. Jabez Jones," she faltered.
"Aye, it's Jabez Jones, at your service," said the old man, coming forward. "And he would like to know what you are doing in his house, and what a horse is doing in his kitchen?" He almost screamed the last words as Blackie neighed more loudly than ever.
"We are travellers who have come here for shelter from the snow," said Mr. Morton wonderingly.
"And I've come in search of one of them," said Harry Quilter, finding his voice at length. "You know me, Jabez Jones, don't you?"
"Aye, aye, and I know her," said the old man, pointing to Cynthy, "but I don't know these," looking at the Mortons. "However, never mind. I guess I'll have a cup o' yon tea."
"Take my place," said Harry, offering his three-legged stool.
"Nay, I'll ha' my own arm-chair," said the old man rudely.
Mr. Morton at once rose, and placed it for him with gentle courtesy.
"Well, you can't be a ghost, for you're just old Jabez and no one else!" cried Cynthy. "But everyone thinks you were drowned in the river six months ago," she added. "Do tell us how you escaped."