ever you said."

"Ye don't know Gran'dad, Mary Louise. He'd as lief kill me as look at
me, if I give him cause to."

"And he has asked you not to talk about Mr. Joselyn?"

"He tol' me ter keep my mouth shet or he'd murder me an' stick my body
in a hole in the yard. An' he'd do it in a minute, ye kin bank on
that."

"Then," said Mary Louise, looking troubled, "I advise you not to say
anything he has forbidden you to. And, if anything ever happens to you
while I'm here, I shall tell Gran'pa Jim to have Mr. Cragg arrested and
put in prison."

"Will ye? Will ye--honest?" asked the girl eagerly. "Say! that'll help
a lot. If I'm killed, I'll know I'll be revenged."

So tragic was her manner that Mary Louise could have laughed outright
had she not felt there was a really serious foundation for Ingua's
fears. There was something about the silent, cold-featured, mysterious
old man that led her to believe he might be guilty of any crime. But,
after all, she reflected, she knew Mr. Cragg's character only from
Ingua's description of it, and the child feared and hated him.

"What does your grandfather do in his office all day?" she inquired
after a long pause.

"Writes letters an' reads the ones he gits, I guess. He don't let me go
to his office."

"Does he get many letters, then?"

"Heaps an' heaps of 'em. You ask Jim Bennett, who brings the mail bag
over from the station ev'ry day."

"Is Jim Bennett the postman?"

"His wife is. Jim lugs the mail 'tween the station an' his own house--
that's the little white house next the church--where his wife, who's
deef-'n'-dumb, runs the postoffice. I know Jim. He says there's 'bout
six letters a year for the farmers 'round here, an' 'bout one a week
for Sol Jerrems--which is mostly bills--an' all the rest belongs to Ol'
Swallertail."

Mary Louise was puzzled.

"Has he a business, then?" she asked.

"Not as anybody knows of."

"But why does he receive and answer so many letters?"

"Ye'll hev to guess. I've guessed, myself; but what's the use? If he
was as stingy of postage stamps as he is of pork an' oatmeal, he
wouldn't send a letter a year."

Mary Louise scented a mystery. Mysteries are delightful things to
discover, and fascinating to solve. But who would have thought this
quiet, retired village harbored a mystery?

"Does your grandfather ever go away from here? Does he travel much?"
was her next question.

"He ain't never been out of Cragg's Crossing sence I've