nt Abigail,
here's your chance to shine."

"Oh, yes, Aunt Abigail," echoed Peggy, for it had early been decided
that Amy should not be allowed a monopoly in the use of that
affectionate title. "We've heard you were the best ever, since the woman
in the Arabian Nights--what was her name--Scheherezade,--and we want to
know if Amy was exaggerating."

Aunt Abigail smiled complacently.

"What sort of story do you want?" she asked. "Something pathetic, or a
story of adventure, or a humorous story or a ghost story or--"

An approving shout interrupted her. "Oh, a ghost story, Aunt Abigail!"

Priscilla clapped her hands. "Isn't this simply perfect! The firelight
on the wall, and shadows flickering, and then a ghost story to crown
everything. Do make it a creepy one, Aunt Abigail."

Aunt Abigail hardly needed urging along that line. She had been an
omnivorous reader all her days, and from books, as well as from what she
had picked up on her travels, she had acquired an unsurpassed collection
of weird incidents which she now began to recount with dramatic effect.
The girls sat spellbound, and when, at the conclusion of the first
story, a faint little wail sounded from the distance, the general start
was indicative of tense nerves.

But it was only Dorothy, awake and standing at the head of the stairs.
"Aunt Peggy!"

"Go back to bed, darling."

"But, Aunt Peggy, what d'you s'pose those little angels have done now?
They've bited me right on my fourhead."

"Oh, my!" Peggy ran up the stairs, to a justly aggrieved Dorothy,
indicating an inflamed lump on her forehead, as a proof of misplaced
confidence. Peggy lit the candle and after some search discovered a
swollen mosquito, perched on the head of Dorothy's bed, ready to resume
operations at the first opportunity. Gluttony had lessened his natural
agility, and at Peggy's avenging hand he paid the penalty of his crime.
Peggy lingered to correct Dorothy's misapprehension, and then went
down-stairs, to find another blood-curdling tale in progress, and the
girls sitting breathless, while the firelight threw fantastic shapes
upon the wall, and the shadows looked startlingly black by contrast.

Ten o'clock was the sensible bedtime decided on in Dolittle Cottage, but
on this occasion the big clock chimed ten unheeded. Apparently Aunt
Abigail's repertoire was far from being exhausted. She had rung the
changes on all the familiar horrors in a dozen stories, and yet no one
seemed