ed. Mrs.
Smithers went to look for it a little later, and, discovering that it was
unaccountably missing, excavated her own private spade from beneath the
hay. During the afternoon, the poet was observed lashing the fire-shovel
to the other end of a decrepit rake. Uncle Israel, after a fruitless
search of the premises, actually went to town and came back with a bulky
and awkward parcel, which he hid in the shrubbery.

Meanwhile, Willie had gone whimpering to Mrs. Dodd, who was in serious
trouble of her own. "I'm afraid," he admitted, when closely questioned.

"Afraid of what?" demanded his counsellor, sharply.

"I'm afraid of ma," sobbed Willie. "She's a-goin' to bury me. She's got
the spade hid under my bed now."

Sudden emotion completely changed Mrs. Dodd's countenance. "There, there,
Willie," she said, stroking him kindly. "Where is your ma?"

"She's out in the orchard with Ebbie and Rebbie."

"Well now, deary, don't you say nothin' at all to your ma, an' we'll fool
her. The idea of buryin' a nice little boy like you! You just go an' get
me that spade an' I'll hide it in my room. Then, when your ma asks for it,
you don't know nothin' about it. See?"

Willie's troubled face brightened, and presently the implement was under
Mrs. Dodd's own bed, and her door locked. Much relieved in his mind and
cherishing kindly sentiments toward his benefactor, Willie slid down the
banisters, unrebuked, the rest of the afternoon.

Meanwhile Mrs. Dodd sat on the porch and meditated. "I'd never have
thought," she said to herself, "that Ebeneezer would intend that Holmes
woman to have any of it, but you never can tell what folks'll do when
their minds gets to failin' at the end. Ebeneezer's mind must have failed
dretful, for I know he didn't make no promise to her, same as he did to
me, an' if she don't suspect nothin', what did she go an' get the spade
for? Dretful likely hand it is, for spirit writin'."

Looking about furtively to make sure that she was not observed, Mrs. Dodd
drew out of the mysterious recesses of her garments, the crumpled
communication of the night before. It was dated, "Heaven, August 12th,"
and the penmanship was Uncle Ebeneezer's to the life.

"Dear Belinda," it read. "I find myself at the last moment obliged to
change my plans. If you will go to the orchard at exactly twelve o'clock
on the night of August 13th, you will find there what you seek. Go
straight ahead to the ninth row of apple trees, then