of one of the witches, of course?" interrupted Dear
Jones.

"Now how could it be the ghost of a witch, since the witches were all
burned at the stake? You never heard of anybody who was burned having a
ghost, did you?" asked Uncle Larry.

"That's an argument in favor of cremation, at any rate," replied Dear
Jones, evading the direct question.

"It is, if you don't like ghosts. I do," said Baby Van Rensselaer.

"And so do I," added Uncle Larry. "I love a ghost as dearly as an
Englishman loves a lord."

"Go on with your story," said the Duchess, majestically overruling all
extraneous discussion.

"This little old house at Salem was haunted," resumed Uncle Larry. "And
by a very distinguished ghost--or at least by a ghost with very
remarkable attributes."

"What was he like?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a premonitory
shiver of anticipatory delight.

"It had a lot of peculiarities. In the first place, it never appeared
to the master of the house. Mostly it confined its visitations to
unwelcome guests. In the course of the last hundred years it had
frightened away four successive mothers-in-law, while never intruding
on the head of the household."

"I guess that ghost had been one of the boys when he was alive and in
the flesh." This was Dear Jones's contribution to the telling of the
tale.

"In the second place," continued Uncle Larry, "it never frightened
anybody the first time it appeared. Only on the second visit were the
ghost-seers scared; but then they were scared enough for twice, and
they rarely mustered up courage enough to risk a third interview. One
of the most curious characteristics of this well-meaning spook was that
it had no face--or at least that nobody ever saw its face."

"Perhaps he kept his countenance veiled?" queried the Duchess, who was
beginning to remember that she never did like ghost stories.

"That was what I was never able to find out. I have asked several
people who saw the ghost, and none of them could tell me anything about
its face, and yet while in its presence they never noticed its
features, and never remarked on their absence or concealment. It was
only afterwards when they tried to recall calmly all the circumstances
of meeting with the mysterious stranger that they became aware that
they had not seen its face. And they could not say whether the features
were covered, or whether they were wanting, or what the trouble was.
They knew only that the face was never seen.