y through a little window and sundry cracks high in the eaves
above the rafters.

There was something about the place, now that we were settled and no
longer occupied with adjustments of comfort, that subdued our spirits,
and it was with much less hilarity that the young people united in
demanding a story. I looked across at my wife, whose face was faintly
visible within the circle. I thought that even in the half-light I
glimpsed the same expression of amused incredulity which she had worn
earlier in the day when I had yielded to the importunities of a
deputation of my students for this ghost-story party on the eve of a
holiday.

"There is no reason," I thought to myself, repeating the phrases I had
used then--"there is no reason why I should not tell a ghost story.
True, I had never done so before, but the literary attainments which
have enabled me to perfect my recent treatise upon the 'Disuse of the
Comma' are quite equal to impromptu experimentation in the field of
psychic phenomena." I was aware that the young people themselves hardly
expected serious acquiescence, and that, too, stimulated me. I cleared
my throat in a prefatory manner, and silence fell upon the group. A
light breeze had risen outside, and the timbers of the barn creaked
persistently. From the shadows almost directly overhead there came a
faint clanking. It was evidently caused by the rusty pulley-wheel which
I had observed there as we entered. An iron hook at the end of an
ancient rope still depended from it, and swung in the lightly stirring
air several feet above our heads, directly over the center of our
circle.

Some curious combination of influences--perhaps the atmosphere of the
place, added to the stimulation of the faintly discernible faces around
me, and my impulse to prove my own ability in this untried field of
narration--gave me a sudden sense of being inspired. I found myself
voicing fancies as though they were facts, and readily including
imaginary names and data which certainly were not in any way
premeditated.

"This barn stands on the old Creed place," I began. "Peter Creed was its
last owner, but I suppose that it has always been and always will be
known as the Turner barn. A few yards away to the south you will find
the crumbling brick-work and gaping hollows of an old foundation, now
overgrown with weeds that almost conceal a few charred timbers. That is
all that is left of the old Ashley Turner house."

I cleared my th