Presently the moon rose; but this only made matters worse.  The shadows had been still before; now they moved and danced, as the night wind tossed the boughs.  The old house, with its dreadful secret, was white and clear against the dark background of spruces.  We were woefully tired, but we could not sit down because the grass was reeking with dew.

“The Family Ghost only appears in daylight,” said the Story Girl.  “I wouldn’t mind seeing a ghost in daylight.  But after dark is another thing.”

“There’s no such thing as a ghost,” I said contemptuously.  Oh, how I wished I could believe it!

“Then what rung that bell?” said Peter.  “Bells don’t ring of themselves, I s’pose, specially when there ain’t any in the house to ring.”

“Oh, will Uncle Roger never come home!” sobbed Felicity.  “I know he’ll laugh at us awful, but it’s better to be laughed at than scared like this.”

Uncle Roger did not come until nearly ten.  Never was there a more welcome sound than the rumble of his wheels in the lane.  We ran to the orchard gate and swarmed across the yard, just as Uncle Roger alighted at the front door.  He stared at us in the moonlight.

“Have you tormented any one into eating more bad berries, Felicity?” he demanded.

“Oh, Uncle Roger, don’t go in,” implored Felicity seriously.  “There’s something dreadful in there—­something that rings a bell.  Peter heard it.  Don’t go in.”

“There’s no use asking the meaning of this, I suppose,” said Uncle Roger with the calm of despair.  “I’ve gave up trying to fathom you young ones.  Peter, where’s the key?  What yarn have you been telling?”

“I did hear a bell ring,” said Peter stubbornly.

Uncle Roger unlocked and flung open the front door.  As he did so, clear and sweet, rang out ten bell-like chimes.

“That’s what I heard,” cried Peter.  “There’s the bell!”

We had to wait until Uncle Roger stopped laughing before we heard the explanation.  We thought he never would stop.

“That’s Grandfather King’s old clock striking,” he said, as soon as he was able to speak.  “Sammy Prott came along after tea, when you were away to the forge, Peter, and I gave him permission to clean the old clock.  He had it going merrily in no time.  And now it has almost frightened you poor little monkeys to death.”

We heard Uncle Roger chuckling all the way to the barn.

“Uncle Roger can laugh,” said Cecily, with a quiver in her voice, “but it’s no laughing matter to be so scared.  I just feel sick, I was so frightened.”

“I wouldn’t mind if he’d laugh once and have it done with it,” said Felicity bitterly.  “But he’ll laugh at us for a year, and tell the story to every soul that comes to the place.”

“You can’t blame him for that,” said the Story Girl.  “I shall tell it, too.  I don’t care if the joke is as much on myself as any one.  A story is a story, no matter who it’s on.  But it is hateful to be laughed at—­and grown-ups always do it.  I never will when I’m grown up.  I’ll remember better.”