“Then the attic wasn’t spooky?” queried Chet, disappointed.

“I should say it was!” returned his mother, with an emphasis that set all his fears at rest.  “It was the creepiest place I have ever been in, and I was never gladder in my life than when we left it for the more cheerful lower floor—­though goodness knows that was dreary enough.”

“Say, when are we going?” cried Chet, jumping to his feet, his face flushed with eagerness.

“Where?” asked Mrs. Bradley.

“To Cherry Corners, of course,” answered Chet in a tone which very plainly meant, “why ask such a foolish question?” “To the ghosts that inhabit the garret and cellar of Billie’s new house.”

“Hold on, hold on there!” cried Mr. Bradley, who had been listening to the proceedings in amused silence.  “Do you happen to know how far Cherry Corners is from here?”

“Very far?” asked Billie.

“A whole day’s ride, that’s all,” their father answered.

“Say, Dad,” cried Chet suddenly.  “What do you suppose the old place is worth?”

“I can’t say, Chet,” answered Mr. Bradley.  “Being so far from good roads and the railroad, I am afraid the land is not worth much.”

“But it must be worth something,” persisted the boy.

Mr. Bradley smiled faintly.

“For Billie’s sake let us hope so.  But you must remember, in this state there are thousands of abandoned farms.  Folks simply can’t make a living on them, and so they move away.”

“But the buildings must be worth something.”

“To live in, yes, but that is all.  You can’t move an old stone house to some other spot.”

“Why do they call it ‘Cherry Corners?’” asked Billie, for she had been following a little train of thought all her own.  “It’s a very queer name.”

“Oh, they come by it naturally enough,” her mother answered.  “It is surrounded by a grove of cherry trees and is near a crossing of two rocky roads.  So you see the reason for ‘Cherry Corners.’”

“Goodness, that sounds as if it were away off in the wilderness!” cried Billie, adding:  “But wouldn’t it be awful to have to live in that spooky old house all alone?  Are there any houses near it, Mother?”

“Not one for more than a mile,” said Mrs. Bradley.  “They are almost as isolated now as they used to be in the old Indian days.”

“Indians!” cried Chet, pricking up his ears again.  “Did you say something about Indians, Mother?”

“Why, I’ve heard Aunt Beatrice say,” answered Mrs. Bradley, beginning to share in her children’s enthusiasm, “that the Powersons who originally built the house built it especially for the purpose of resisting Indian attacks.  Now that I come to think of it,” she added, her eyes beginning to shine with excitement, “that was the reason for the winding tunnels and secret rooms.  As the last resort, the family could take refuge in them.”

“Oh, boy!” cried Chet, springing to his feet for the second time.  “Did you hear that, did you?  Indian raids and—­oh, gosh!” Words failed him and he sank back in his chair with a sigh of joy.