"Try it anyway."
"You was here once, Ben. Is the house as you remember it?"
"I can't remember it—I was a pisstail baby."
"I suppose we oughtn't use such words here?"
"You're right. I must remember."
They explored the room, timidly. A pot clattered in the unknown kitchen. A dog barked outdoors and was chided by some woman's elderly peevish voice. In the dying light, they could not make much of a painting on the wall—someone lean, stern, undoubtedly dead, with the high-bridged Cory nose; probably Grandfather Matthew, of whom Ben's father had seldom spoken. Jonas Lloyd had made no move to light the candles or the firewood standing ready on the hearth. Ben ventured onto another chair; no ghost pitched him out of it. Reuben sank on the floor and rested his cheek against Ben's knee, then jerked away, feeling the poultice that Goody Hawks had bound on the splinter-wound. "Did I——"
"Nay, it don't hurt," said Ben, and pulled him back, and tried to smooth his tangled hair, but only a vigorous combing would do that.
"Ben, how ever did we get over the palisade?"
"Jesse—he pulled you up and jumped with you."
"Why can't I remember it?"