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Lucia brought Alice in some blush roses one day. Mr. Sheldon was there, too, having just returned from a visit to some friends in Montreal. He had been away ever since the squabble over the organization of the Boy Scouts.
    Lucia had evidently been crying. And Lucia was not a girl who cried easily or readily. Curtis was suddenly seized with a desire to draw her head down on his shoulder and comfort her. Anyone could have read the desire in his face.
    He was even following her from the room when a spasm of pain twisted Alice’s face and she gave a gasping cry.
    “Lucia ... come back ... quick, please. I’m going to have ... one of ... my spells.”
    Mr. Sheldon decamped quickly. Curtis did not see Lucia again for twenty-four hours. Most of the time she was in Alice’s darkened room, vainly trying to relieve the sufferer. So he went a little longer in ignorance, though even old Mr. Sheldon was shaking his head and saying it wouldn’t do ... no, it wouldn’t do at all.
    As he returned from the garden after seeing Mr. Sheldon off he noticed that a beautiful young white birch, which had been growing exquisitely among the spruces in a corner, had been cut down. It was Lucia’s favourite tree ... she had spokenof her love for it on the preceding evening. It was lying on the ground, its limp leaves quivering pitifully.
    He spoke of it rather indignantly to Long Alec.
    “The tree was all right last night,” said Long Alec. “Mr. Sheldon remarked on its beauty when he called for a moment on his way to the station.”
    Curtis stared.
    “Didn’t you cut it down ... or order it cut? I’ve heard you say the trees were growing too thick around the house.”
    “I wouldn’t be likely to cut down a white birch. It was like this when we got up this morning.”
    “Then ... who cut it down?”
    “Our dear ghost, I suppose,” said Long Alec bitterly, turning away. Alec would never discuss the ghost.
    Curtis saw Julia’s queer little amber eyes watching him from the back veranda. He remembered hearing her ask Jock the preceding day to sharpen the axe kept sacred to the splitting of kindling.
    For the next three weeks Curtis had plenty to think about. One night he was awakened by the telephone ringing the Field call. He sat up in bed. Over his head in the garret a cradle was rocking distinctly. Curtis rose, flung on a dressing gown, snatched up his flashlight, went down the hall, opened the door into the little recess at its end and went up the garret stair. The cradle had stopped. The long room was bare and quiet under its rafters, hung with bunches of herbs, bags of feathers, and a few discarded garments. There was little in the garret ... two big wooden chests, a spinning wheel, some bags of wool. A rat could easily have hidden in it but no bigger thing. Curtis went down and as he reached the foot of the stair the weird strains of a violin floated down after him. He was conscious of a nasty crinkling of his nerves, but he dashed up again. Nothing ...nobody was there. The garret was as still and innocent as before. Yet as he went down the music recommenced.
    The telephone rang again in the dining room. Curtis went down and answered it. There was no response. It was of no use to call up central. The line was a rural party one with twenty subscribers on it.
    Curtis deliberately listened at the door of Long Alec’s bedroom off the dining room. He could hear Long Alec’s breathing. He tiptoed up the kitchen stair to Jock’s door. Jock was snoring. He went back through the house and up the front stair. The telephone rang again. Opposite the stair was the door of Alice’s room. He did not listen there. Her light as usual was burning and she was repeating the twenty-third psalm to herself in her soft, clear voice. A few steps further down the hall was Julia’s room, opposite his own.
    Curtis listened at the door but heard nothing. Lucia’s room was beyond the stair railing. He did not listen there. But he could not help the thought