"Then _I_ dare," cried Joyce with flashing eyes. "I am not afraid of
Brossard or Henri or your uncle, or any man that I ever knew. What's
more, I intend to march over here just as soon as your uncle comes home,
and tell him right before Brossard how you have been treated."

Jules gasped in admiration of such reckless courage. "Seems to me
Brossard himself would be afraid of you if you looked at him that way."
Then his voice sank to a whisper. "Brossard is afraid of one thing, I've
heard him tell Henri so, and that is _ghosts_. They talk about them
every night when the wind blows hard and makes queer noises in the
chimney. Sometimes they are afraid to put out their candles for fear
some evil spirit might be in the room."

"I'm glad he is afraid of something, the mean old thing!" exclaimed
Joyce. For a few moments nothing more was said, but Jules felt comforted
now that he had unburdened his long pent up little heart. He reached out
for several blades of grass and began idly twisting them around
his finger.

Joyce sat with her hands clasped over her knees, and a wicked little
gleam in her eyes that boded mischief. Presently she giggled as if some
amusing thought had occurred to her, and when Jules looked up
inquiringly she began noiselessly clapping her hands together.

"I've thought of the best thing," she said. "I'll fix old Brossard now.
Jack and I have played ghost many a time, and have even scared each
other while we were doing it, because we were so frightful-looking. We
put long sheets all over us and went about with pumpkin jack-o'-lanterns
on our heads. Oh, we looked awful, all in white, with fire shining out
of those hideous eyes and mouths. If I knew when Brossard was likely to