In the days that followed David kept more than ever to himself. He occupied a small room alone, and for hours at a time he would stay inside it, with his door locked against intruders. Few sounds ever came forth to show what the lad was doing. His hands and arms were bandaged almost to the elbows, but he had use of his fingers and his face was uninjured.

Madge had forced herself to thank David, both for his rescue of her and of the old horse, which she had intended to save. But David had not had the courtesy to apologize to her for having thrown her aside so roughly. He wished to, but the poor fellow did not know what to say to her, nor how to say it.

The girls had all offered to read to David, or to entertain him in any way he desired, while he was suffering from his burns. But the boy had refused their offers so flatly that no one of them felt any wish to be agreeable to him again.

The young people spent a great part of their holiday on the Preston farm in riding horseback by daylight and by moonlight, and in exploring the old salt and sulphur springs and mines in the neighborhood. Word had come from Tom Curtis and George Robinson that the accident to the engine of the motor launch had been more serious than they had at first supposed. The boys would be compelled to remain away some time longer. Mrs. Curtis wished to see Tom on business, so he had gone on to New York for a few days.

Since the corn roast, the burning of his barn and the burglarizing of his house Mr. Preston had been quietly endeavoring to discover the evil-doers. He had notified the county sheriff and the latter had set his men to work on the case, but so far there were no clues. Mr. Preston believed that the same person who had set fire to the barn had committed the robbery. The barn, must have been burned in order to keep the attention of the family and guests centered on the outside disaster while the thief was exploring the house.

Madge did not like to mention to Mr. Preston that David Brewster might be able to give him some information about the burglary; for Madge remembered having seen David run toward the house at about the time the fire was started. He did not come back for some minutes afterward. Yet, as David did not speak of his presence in the house to Mr. Preston or to any one else, she did not feel that it was her place to speak of it. David might have some reason for his silence which he would explain later on.

Miss Betsey Taylor was now more than ever convinced that the same thief who had robbed her of various small sums on the houseboat had but completed his work. How the robber had pursued her to Mr. Preston’s home she did not explain. But she certainly cast aside with scorn Madge’s suggestion that no one had stolen from her while she was aboard the “Merry Maid.” She had only miscounted her money, as many a woman has done before, Madge had contended. Miss Betsey had been fearful that the little captain might be right before the final disappearance of her money bag. But now she regretted, far more than her money, the loss of the few family jewels that she had inherited from her thrifty New England grandmothers.

David Brewster stood at his little back window, watching Madge, Phyllis, Lillian, Eleanor, Harry Sears and Jack Bolling mount their horses for a long afternoon’s ride over to some old sulphur springs a few miles from the Preston estate. The party was to eat supper at the springs and to ride home before bed time. Mrs. Preston, Miss Jenny Ann and Miss Betsey Taylor were already driving out of the yard in Mrs. Preston’s old phaeton. They were to be the advance guard of the riding party, as no one except their hostess knew the route they should take.

Mrs. Preston had invited David to drive with her, as he was not able to use his injured hands sufficiently to guide a riding horse, but David had refused. The party were to be away for some time. Mr. Preston would be out on the farm, looking after his harvesting. David Brewster had other plans for the afternoon.

Once the others were fairly out of the yard the boy found an old slouch hat in his shabby suit case. He pulled it well down over his face. Then he got into an old coat that he had been ashamed to wear before the new friends, but it served his present purpose. Inside his coat pocket David thrust a small, flat object that, in some form, always accompanied him whenever there was a possible chance of his being alone for any length of time.

Then David left the farm. He said good-bye to no one. To one of the maids who saw him leaving he merely explained that he was going for a walk. He did not ask for food to take with him. His one idea was to be off as soon as possible.

The boy was not entirely certain of the route that he must travel. He knew of but one way to go, and it stretched over many miles. It might mean delay and difficulty. David was not as strong as he had been before the shock and injury of the fire. Still, the thing must be done. It was not the physical effort that worried David.

The trip seemed interminable. The lad had to travel along the road that led back to the houseboat, and from there to follow the line of the river bank to a well-remembered spot. David swung along as rapidly as possible. His greatest desire was to make his journey and to return to the farm before the riding party got home. He might then have an explanation to make. What could he say if anybody demanded to know where he had been? His silence would create suspicion. But then, David had kept his own counsel before to-day.

It was well into the afternoon before the boy reached his destination. Slowly and cautiously, making as little noise as possible, he climbed a hill that rose before him. The crest of the hill was heavily wooded and a high pile of sticks and branches formed a clever hiding place. But there was no human being in sight, no old woman, no man, no sign of a fire except a few ashes that had been carefully scattered over the ground.

When the youth reached the top he stood still and looked cautiously about him. He could hear the rush of the river below the hill and the rustle of the wind in the trees. He crouched low and put his ear to the ground, like an Indian, then rose and, with a frown, went to the brush heap and crawled under it. Presently he came out, holding in his hand a small red handkerchief which was knotted and tied together. David’s face was very stern. It seemed that something which he had feared had come true; yet the lad turned and went down the hill again, whistling and kicking at the underbrush and shrubbery as he walked, as though he were trying to make as much noise as possible. Ten minutes later David came back up the hill by another route as quietly as some creature of the woods in hiding from a foe. Behind a tree the boy lay down flat. He took out of his pocket the small package that he had brought with him from the farm and, holding it before him, seemed to lose himself completely in earnest contemplation of it.

After a while some one else drew near the same place, walking even more stealthily than had the boy. David did not stir nor turn his head. He was hidden by the trees. An old woman crept to the pile of underbrush. She crawled under it and stayed for some time. When she came out she had forgotten to be silent; she was mumbling and muttering to herself.

“Granny,” David touched the gypsy woman on the shoulder.

“Is it you, boy?” she asked, riveting her small black eyes on him. “How came you to Virginia? We thought that you were many hundreds of miles away. It’s a pity!” She shook her head. “Fate is too strong for us all,” she muttered to herself.

“I am sure I am as sorry as you are that I am here,” David interrupted her passionately. “But perhaps you are right, and it is fate. I came to Virginia because I had work to do here. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I ain’t seen him but once since,” answered the woman.

David laughed rather drearily. “Don’t try to fool me. You’ve got to tell me the truth before I go away from here. You might as well do it first as last.”

The old woman looked furtively and anxiously at the heap of dead branches. “I am telling you the truth,” she asserted.

“Where is he, Granny?” continued David. “I’ve got to find him.”

“You ain’t got to find him,” protested the old woman. “You can’t give him away, and it won’t do no good. Ain’t you his ” She stopped short. “You can’t make him change now; it is too late.”

“I don’t want to talk; I’ve got to get back,” returned David quietly. “If you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll give the alarm and have the country scoured for him.”

The old woman whispered something in David’s ear. “I am not sure he is there, but I think that’s the place. I know we can trust you, boy, for all your high and mighty ways.”

“You had better get away from here, Granny,” answered David. “You are too old for this sort of life, and some day you will get into trouble.”

The gypsy’s hand moved patiently. “It’s the only kind of life I have been used to for many, many years. I don’t mind, so long as he keeps on getting off.”

David strode down the hill. It was just before sunset. He was beginning to doubt his being able to make his way back to the Preston place before the picnic party came home. He could not walk so fast as he had come, for he was tired and disheartened.

After a few miles’ journey along the river bank he came to a bend where he could see, farther ahead, the “Merry Maid,” the poor little houseboat, looking as deserted and lonely as David felt. Her decks were cleared and her cabins locked until the return of the houseboat party. She was being taken care of by a colored boy who lived not far away.

David felt a sudden rush of longing. The houseboat was filled with happy memories of the girls. He was tired out and exhausted. He must rest somewhere. The boy climbed aboard the houseboat. But he did not rest. He walked feverishly up and down the deck.

An overwhelming impulse never to return to the Preston farm swept over David. The love of wandering was in his blood. To-day he did not feel fit to associate with the girls and boys who made up the two boat parties. He ought never to have come with them. His lowly birth and lack of training were against him. David knew that trouble, and perhaps disgrace, might be in store for him if he went back to Mr. Preston’s and faced what was probably going to happen.

The poor boy wrestled with temptation. Mr. and Mrs. Preston had been good to him. Miss Betsey meant to be kind, in spite of her fussiness, and she had evidently told his new acquaintances nothing to his discredit. Tom Curtis and Madge Morton trusted him. Yet could he face the suspicion which he felt sure would fall upon him?

The sun was going down and the river was a flaming pathway of gold when David turned his back on the houseboat and started for Mr. Preston’s home. His steps grew heavier and heavier as he walked. He was stiff, sore and weary. The bandages were nearly off his hands and the flesh smarted and burned from the exposure to the air. David was also ravenously hungry. Against his heart the things wrapped in the old red handkerchief cut like sharp tools.

Night and the stars came. David was still far from home. He decided that it might be best for him to struggle on no farther. It would be easier to explain in the morning that he had gone out for a walk and lost his way; than to face his friends to-night with any explanation of his trip.

David remembered that the house that the colored boy, Sam, had described as “ha’nted” lay midway between the houseboat and the farm. He could sleep out on its old porch.

David filled his hat with Sam’s “hoodoo” peaches. He sat on the veranda steps as he ate them, thinking idly of Sam’s story of the old place and getting it oddly mixed with what he had heard of Harry Sears’s ghost story. David was not superstitious. He did not believe that he could be afraid of ghosts. He had other live troubles to worry him, which seemed far worse. Still, he hoped that if ghosts did walk at midnight about this forlorn old spot that they would choose any other night than this.

It was a soft, warm summer evening with a waning moon. David rolled his coat up under his head for a pillow and lay down in one corner of the porch.

He did not go to sleep at once; he was too tired and his bed was too hard. How long he slept he did not know. He was awakened by a sound so indescribably soft and vague that it might have been only a breath of wind stirring. But David felt his hands grow icy cold and his breath come in gasps. He was conscious of something uncanny near him. Something warm touched him. He could have screamed with terror. But it was only a thin, black cat, the color of the night shadows.

The boy sat up. He was wide awake. He was not dreaming. Stealing up the path to the house was a wraith; tall, thin, emaciated, with hair absolutely white and thin, and skeleton-like hands; it was the semblance of an old man. He was not human; he made no noise, he did not seem to walk, he floated along. There was something dreadfully sad in the ghost’s appearance. Yet he was not alone. He led some one by the hand, a young girl, who was more ghost-like than he was. Her hair was floating out from her tiny, gnome-like face. She was thinner and more pathetic than the old man. She had no expression in her face and she, too, made no sound.

The awestruck boy did not stir. The midnight visitants to the empty house did not notice him. They came up to the porch. They mounted the steps and, without touching the fallen front door, passed silently into the deserted mansion.

David did not know how long he waited, spellbound, after this apparition. But no sound came forth from the house; no one reappeared. The black cat rubbed against him the second time. Even the cat must have been dumb, for she made no noise, did not even purr.

David Brewster was not a coward. If you had asked him in the broad daylight if he were afraid of ghosts he would have been too disgusted at the idea even to answer you. But to-night he could not reason, could not think. As soon as he could get his breath he ran with all his speed down through the yard of the “ha’nted house,” over the fence and into the road, and then for the rest of the distance to the Preston house. He forgot his fatigue, forgot that he might have to answer difficult questions once he got home. David wanted to be with real, live people after his night of fears.

The boy found no lights in the Preston house. The front door was closed and the back one barred for the night. Evidently the excursionists had come back late and, believing him to be in bed, had not wished to disturb him.

David prowled around the house. He hated to wake anybody up to let him in. He knew that Miss Betsey would be frightened into hysterics by the sudden ringing of a bell. The boy found a pantry window unlocked. Opening it, he crawled into the house. He got up to his bedroom without anybody coming out to see who it was that had entered the house at such a mysterious hour. It was not until early the next morning that David learned that he need not have been so careful, as there was no one in the Preston house except himself and some of the servants.