Chapter I

“Katie has been complaining again of the queer noises in the cellar,” said Rob’s mother, as she passed the coffee cup to her husband across the breakfast table.

“It must be rats,” said Rob’s papa. “We will get a trap.”

“It is very strange,” said Mamma again, “the girls declare that the noises seem to come from the old well. That is what all our servants have said for years. You know some of them have been so frightened that they gave us notice, because of the noises in the well. They think it is bewitched.”

“What is ‘bewitched,’ Mamma?” asked Rob.

“Pooh, pooh!” said Rob’s papa. “It is only rats, I know, and the noises do not come from the well, but from the wall. There must be a rat’s nest in the wall close by the well. I have heard about those noises ever since I was a little boy. Sometimes I used to think that I heard them myself, and I fancied all sorts of queer things. But of course it was nothing but rats.”

Rob had been listening with round eyes, and now he cried eagerly, “O Papa! I did not know that there was a well under the house. How did it come there, and what is it for?”

“Oh, yes, there is an old well,” said his papa. “It has been down there longer than I can remember, for it is even older than the house,--older than the city, too, I daresay. It was an Indian spring, and my great-grandfather built the house over it, so as to have fresh water always conveniently at hand. It is covered now with a trapdoor, so that no one can fall in by mistake. That is why you never saw it, Rob.”

“An old Indian spring!” cried Rob excitedly, “and we drink that very same water every day! How splendid!” He sipped some water from his glass and smacked his lips.

“Oh, no,” said his papa laughing. “This is ordinary spring water bought at the store. Our old well has not been used for years and years. Since the city has been built up so closely around our house, which was one of the first ones here on the Hill, we have not dared to use the well water, because it might not be clean. I daresay the well is quite dry by this time. I have not looked into it for years.”

“O Papa! I want to look down into the well!” cried Rob.

“Well, you shall do so some time,” said his papa as they rose from the table. “But I am in a hurry now. Good-by, Mamma. Good-by, Rob. I will buy a trap on my way down town to-day, and we will put an end to the noises in the cellar which trouble Katie.”

Now of course Rob was very anxious to see that well, for he loved everything that had to do with Indians. He thought that he could not wait for his father to show it to him. He ran into the kitchen and began to bother Katie.

“Katie, Katie,” he begged. “Please come into the cellar and show me the old well. I want to look down into it.”

“The Saints preserve us!” cried Katie, lifting up her hands in horror. “What for do ye want to be lookin’ into the well? No, me b’y! It’s I that will be kapin’ away from that same, and thank ye kindly. ’Tis bewitched it is, what with the funny little noises a-comin’ out of it day and night.”

“What funny little noises, Katie?” asked Rob. “Papa says it is rats. He is going to buy a trap to catch them.”

“Rats! A trap!” sniffed Katie scornfully. “’Tis no rats at all do be makin’ them quare little noises. ’Tis bewitched, I tell ye. ’Tis stark bewitched, that well. And I wouldn’t go near it at all for the promise of a new bonnet.”

“What does ‘bewitched’ mean, Katie?” asked Rob again.

Katie wagged her head and mysteriously made the sign of the cross.

“Oh, who will be tellin’ ye that? If it was in the owld country I’d say it was Fairies or maybe the Leprechaun himself. But I never heard tell o’ Fairies in this land, at all. Maybe ’tis something worse. But oh! The funny little noises!”

“_What_ noises, Katie?” begged Rob.

“Oh, the little whinin’ and sobbin’, like one wantin’ to get out. ’Tis no rats live in the owld well. Would _rats_ be whimperin’ and beggin’ like?”

“Begging, Katie!” cried Rob. “Oh, what do they say? Please, please tell me quickly.”

“La, no! Master Rob,” said Katie, looking sidewise at the little boy, “your Mamma wouldn’t want me to be frightenin’ ye with tales the likes o’ these.”

“But I’m not frightened, Katie,” said Rob eagerly. “I’m just _interested_.”

“H’m,” said Katie doubtfully, glancing at the clock. “Whisht! Master Rob! ’Tis a quarter to nine, and time for you to be startin’ for school, or you’ll be late.”

And indeed, Rob had to run all the way, and reached school barely in time.

Rob’s papa did not forget to bring home a rat-trap that night, and after dinner he said,--

“Now, Rob, I am going down cellar to set the trap, and if you want to come with me I will show you the old well.”

Of course Rob wanted to go. So Rob’s papa took a lighted candle in one hand, and the rat-trap nicely baited with cheese in the other, and they descended the steep cellar stairs together. It was very dark in the cellar, and the candle made queer flares on the walls and ceiling, and lighted up corners which Rob had never before seen. In the very darkest and dimmest corner of all, away in the back cellar, Rob’s papa paused, and then Rob saw that in the floor there was a trapdoor with an iron ring, quite like the Arabian Nights!

“It is from somewhere hereabout that Katie says she hears the noises,” said Papa. “We will set the trap on the floor, close beside the wall, and I warrant we shall catch a big rat before many nights are over.” So he set the trap with the spring ready to catch the first greedy rat who should try to steal the cheese.

“Now let us look into the well,” said Rob’s papa. “I haven’t lifted this cover for years. Ugh! It is heavy enough!” He tugged at the iron ring and presently the cover flew back. Down below yawned a great black hole, very deep and seemingly quite empty.

“Here, Rob, take hold of my hand,” said his papa, “and you can look down.” Rob held tightly to his father’s hand, and bending over, peered into the well. The candle which his father held flickered and flamed and shot a shaft of light down into the strange hole.

“I can’t see anything,” said Rob, disappointed. “I don’t think there is any water there. But--but I think I hear something! A queer little noise like water trickling, or somebody whispering very softly.”

“The spring may be bubbling yet,” said his father. “Katie, O Katie!” he called upstairs. “Please bring me a tin pail and a ball of stout twine. We will see whether the Indian spring has run dry or not.”

“The Saints preserve us!” Rob heard Katie cry in the kitchen above, as she went about to do as she was bid. And again Rob thought he heard a murmuring in the well.

“There is the queer noise again, Papa!” he cried. “It sounds like some one talking a long way off.”

“Pooh, pooh!” said Papa. (He was always saying, “Pooh, pooh” at Rob’s queer notions.) “Run and get the pail and the cord, Sonny. Katie is afraid to come near the well. Ah! Now we shall soon know.”

He tied the cord to the handle of the pail, while Rob held the candle and they watched the pail descend. Down, down it went, until it disappeared into the blackness. “Well, well!” said his father. “Ten, twenty, I must have paid out thirty feet of cord already. I had forgotten that the well was so deep. Hello! There was a splash; hear it, Rob?”

Rob heard,--a quick splash, and again the queer little noise, a tinkle, a trickle, a rustle, a whisper.

“O Papa,” he cried, “let me draw up the pail, please.”

“Well, be very careful, Son,” said his father. And Rob began to pull on the cord, while his father held tightly to his jacket so that he should not fall down into the deep, black hole. The pail was rather heavy. It bumped against the sides of the well, tinkling and jingling as it came up. Rob thought that it jerked and wobbled strangely. But perhaps his hand was not quite steady, he was so excited. At last the pail came in sight, full of water. They drew it over the edge, Rob stooping eagerly to see. Filled to the brim it was, and running over.

“Clear water, as cold as ice,” said Rob’s Papa, dipping in his finger. “Let us take it upstairs and see it in a better light. I would not have believed that the old spring was still bubbling.”

Very carefully Rob carried the pail of water up the cellar stairs. “Katie, O Katie!” he called. “See the water from the old well! From thirty feet down in the darkness it came.”

“The Saints preserve us!” cried Katie. (She was always saying that.) “I wouldn’t touch water from the witch-well for any money ye could offer.”

“It is clear and bright as glass,” said Rob’s papa.

“O Papa! Let me drink some,” cried Rob. “I should so love to taste water from a real Indian spring.”

“O Mr. Evans! Don’t let the b’y taste it!” begged Katie, clasping her hands. “It will kill him, the p’isen water!”

“No, Rob,” said Mr. Evans, “I think Katie is right. It might be dangerous to drink the water. But it looks delicious. What a pity that we cannot use spring water from our own ancestral well, instead of buying it at the store as every one else must!”

“Please, Papa--just one little sip?” begged Rob.

“No, not one little sip, Son. Here, Katie, empty the pail of water into the sink,” said Mr. Evans firmly.

Tremblingly Katie took the pail and went with it to the sink. But she had not turned half the water away when she gave a scream.

“Ow! The whimperin’ and cryin’! Hark till it!” she shrieked. And indeed, it seemed to Rob that the water sobbed and moaned as it ran down the sink spout. Suddenly he had an idea.

“It is too bad to let the beautiful fresh Indian spring water run into the horrid old sewer,” he said. “Please, Papa, come with me and let me pour it back into the well.”

“Pooh, pooh!” laughed Mr. Evans. “What an idea! You are as silly as Katie, Rob. I don’t want you to get strange ideas into your head. But--well, come along, since you are so anxious that the famous water should not be wasted. I want to cover up the well tightly, so that no one can fall in.”

Downstairs they went once more, Rob carrying the pail half full of water, which he poured back into the well. With a glad _splash_ it joined the hidden spring far, far below, and again Rob felt sure that he caught the sound of a whispering voice, tinkling, trickling, sighing, sobbing, as if it were trying to say something to him, perhaps to thank him. He bent over the well, listening eagerly. But his father pulled him back by the hand.

“Come, Rob,” he said. “I want to put the cover in place, and then we must go upstairs. It is time that you were in bed.”

So they let down the cover with a _bang!_ and Rob went away with his father out of the dark cellar and into the gaslight. But the sound of those queer little noises followed after him, upstairs and upstairs, and even after he was in bed.