et his breath he ran with all his speed down
through the yard of the "ha'nted house," over the fence and into the
road, and then for the rest of the distance to the Preston house. He
forgot his fatigue, forgot that he might have to answer difficult
questions once he got home. David wanted to be with real, live people
after his night of fears.

The boy found no lights in the Preston house. The front door was closed
and the back one barred for the night. Evidently the excursionists had
come back late and, believing him to be in bed, had not wished to
disturb him.

David prowled around the house. He hated to wake anybody up to let him
in. He knew that Miss Betsey would be frightened into hysterics by the
sudden ringing of a bell. The boy found a pantry window unlocked.
Opening it, he crawled into the house. He got up to his bedroom without
anybody coming out to see who it was that had entered the house at such
a mysterious hour. It was not until early the next morning that David
learned that he need not have been so careful, as there was no one in
the Preston house except himself and some of the servants.

CHAPTER XIII

ELEANOR GETS INTO MISCHIEF

Mrs. Preston, Miss Jenny Ann and Miss Betsey, in the old phaeton,
plodded on ahead of the young people to show them the route to the old
sulphur springs. They passed by a number of beautiful Virginia farms and
old homesteads along the shady roads. Miss Betsey was deeply interested
in the history of the neighborhood, and in the old families that had
lived in this vicinity since the close of the Civil War. Mrs. Preston
liked nothing better than to relate that history to her New England
guest.

To tell the truth, Miss Betsey Taylor was far more clever than any one
might have supposed. She remembered very well that the friend of her
youth, Mr. John Randolph, had come from somewhere near Culpepper,
Virginia. Nor was she by any means unwilling to know what had become of
him after he had disappeared from her horizon. But Miss Taylor did not
intend to ask her hostess any direct questions if she could be persuaded
to relate the story of this John Randolph in the natural course of her
conversation. It may be that Miss Betsey had even been influenced in
her desire to spend some time on the Preston estate by this same thirst
for information in regard to the friend who had certainly lived not far
from this very neighborhood.

"Whose place is that over there?" inquired Miss Je