once I showed you how the land lay."

* * * * *

The Empty House, that stood in its neglected garden not far from the
Park gates, was built on a point of land that entered wedgewise into the
Colonel's estate. Though something of an eyesore, therefore, he could do
nothing with it.

To the children it had always been an object of peculiar, though not
unwholesome, mystery. None of them cared to pass it on a stormy day--the
wind made such odd noises in its empty corridors and rooms--and they
refused point-blank to go within hailing distance of it after dark. But
in Jimbo's imagination it was especially haunted, and if he had ceased
to reveal to the others what he _knew_ went on under its roof, it was
only because they were unable to follow him, and were inclined to greet
his extravagant recitals with "Now, Jimbo, you know _perfectly_ well
you're only making up."

The House had been empty for many years; but, to the children, it had
been empty since the beginning of the world, since what they called the
"_very_ beginning." They believed--well, each child believed according
to his own mind and powers, but there was at least one belief they all
held in common: for it was generally accepted as an article of faith
that the Indians, encamped among the shrubberies on the back lawn,
secretly buried their dead behind the crumbling walls of its weedy
garden--the "dead" provided by the children's battles, be it understood.
Wakeful ears in the night-nursery had heard strange sounds coming from
that direction when the windows were open on hot summer nights; and the
gardener, supreme authority on all that happened in the night (since
they believed that he sat up to watch the vegetables and fruit-trees
ripen, and never went to bed at all), was evidently of the same
persuasion.

When appealed to for an explanation of the mournful wind-voices, he knew
what was expected of him, and rose manfully to the occasion.

"It's either them Redskins aburyin' wot you killed of 'em yesterday,"
he declared, pointing towards the Empty House with a bit of broken
flower-pot, "or else it's the ones you killed last week, and who was
always astealin' of my strorbriz." He looked very wise as he said this,
and his wand of office--a dirty trowel--which he held in his hand, gave
him tremendous dignity.

"That's just what _we_ thought, and of course if you say so too, that
settles it," said Nixie.

"It's more'n likely, miss