Master Cheese cracked on at his walnuts. "You have not heard the tale that's going about, I suppose, Miss Deb?" he presently said.
"I have not heard any tale," she answered.
"And I don't know that I must tell it you," continued Master Cheese, filling his mouth with five or six quarters at once, unpeeled. "Jan ordered me to hold my tongue indoors."
"It would be more respectful, Master Cheese, if you said Mr. Jan," rebuked Miss Deborah. "I have told you so often."
"Who cares?" returned Master Cheese. "Jan doesn't. The fact is, Miss Deb, that there's a ghost about at night just now."
"Have they got up that folly again? Rachel Frost rests a great deal quieter in her grave than some of you do in your beds."
"Ah, but it's not Rachel's this time," significantly responded Master Cheese. "It's somebody else's."
"Whose is it, then?" asked Miss Deb, struck with his manner.
"I'll tell you if you won't tell Jan. It's—don't start, Miss Deb—it's Fred Massingbird's."
Miss Deb did not start. She looked keenly at Master Cheese, believing he might be playing a joke upon her. But there were no signs of joking in his countenance. It looked, on the contrary, singularly serious, not to say awe-struck, as he leaned forward to bring it nearer Miss Deborah's.