t.
It came before bedtime.

She and Grace had been marching about the dining-room, singing martial
songs. They went into the darkened parlor, still promenading, Grace's
arm about her little cousin's waist.

Suddenly Grace stopped, and whispered,--

"What's that?"

Dotty listened. It was a groan. It must proceed from a human throat; but
there was no one in the room but their two selves.

"I think there is _something_ in the hall," whispered Grace; "I must go
tell papa."

Mr. Clifford immediately took a lamp, and went to investigate the
mystery. Dotty insisted upon going too, though she hardly knew why,
except that the prospect of some unknown horror fascinated her. She
clung to the skirt of her uncle's coat, though he would have preferred
not to be hindered. No one else, not even Horace, cared to follow.

As they entered the parlor there was the same sound from the hall, even
more unearthly than ever. Dotty had entire faith in her uncle, and was
not at all alarmed till they passed through the parlor doorway, and she
saw the finger-prints of blood on the panels. Then she did tremble, and
she had half a mind to draw back; but curiosity was stronger than fear.

What _could_ it be that walked into people's houses _Out West_, and
groaned so in their front halls? She must see the whole thing for
herself, and be prepared to describe it to Prudy.

She soon knew what it meant. There was a poor intoxicated man lying on
the mat. Seeing the door open, he had staggered in while the family were
at tea. In some way he had hurt his hand, and stained the door with
blood. So there was nothing at all mysterious or supernatural in the
affair, when it was once explained.

The poor creature was too helpless to be sent into the street; and Mr.
Clifford and Katinka carried him into the stable, and laid him upon a
bed of sweet hay.

"I'm glad not to be a Hoojer," said Dotty, with a severe look at her
Cousin Horace. "You don't ever see such bad men in the State of Maine.
The whiskey is locked up; and I don't know as there _is_ any whiskey."

"Down East is a great place, Dotty! Don't I wish I was a Yankee--I mean
a 'Publican?"

"But you can't be, Horace," returned little Dotty, looking up at him
with deep pity in her bright eyes; "you weren't born there. You're a
Hoojer, and you'll have to _stay_ a Hoojer."

CHAPTER XI.

SNIGGLING FOR EELS.

Next day Mr. Clifford said he would take all the children,
except Miss Flyawa