The Old Willis Place

stared at the vines and leaves still swaying from Georgie's plunge into the trees. "I wish he'd let me take a look at him. Are you sure the dog didn't bite him?"
    "I'm positive," Lissa answered for me. "He knocked him down, that's all."
    "He's okay," I added. "MacDuff just scared him."
    Mr. Morrison glanced at MacDuff, who was now lying calmly at his feet. "That's not like you, old boy."
    "Maybe it was the feathers in Georgie's hair," Lissa said, "and the war paint. He jumped out of the bushes screaming and yelling. I guess he was trying to frighten us."
    Mr. Morrison shook his head. "I've never seen a getup like that. He looked like a genuine savage."
    Lissa nodded. "I was scared to death of him."
    Her father turned to me. "Well, I'm glad to see you don't wear feathers in your hair, too." He smiled to show he was teasing, but I didn't trust him. He'd start asking questions any minute now.
    Sure enough, his very next words were, "Do you and Georgie live nearby?"
    I shrugged and stared at my bare feet, cleaner than they'd been in years, almost unrecognizable. I seemed to have lost my voice as well as the ability to move.
    Lissa reached out and took my hand. "Doesn't Diana have the most beautiful hair you ever saw?"
    "Why, yes," he said. "With that long braid, you could be a princess in a fairy tale—Rapunzel perhaps."
    "Come home with us." Lissa held my hand tighter. "We'll have something cold to drink. Soda, iced tea, lemonade—whatever you want."
    Like a creature with no will of my own, I allowed Lissa to lead me back to the trailer. What was done was done. I might as well enjoy having a friend as long as possible.

Chapter 8
    Mr. Morrison seated us at the picnic table and went inside to fix lemonade. I told him I wasn't thirsty, but he set a frosty glass down in front of me anyway.
    "Where do you live, Diana?" he asked again in a friendly way.
    "Oh, not very far." I stirred the lemonade with a straw. The ice cubes bumped against each other.
    "In that group of houses across the highway from the farm gates?"
    I glanced at Lissa and nodded. The ice cubes were miniature icebergs, the kind that sink ships in the Arctic Ocean. Clinkety, clinkety, clunk.
    "Lissa's bike was stolen the night we moved in," Mr. Morrison went on. "A brand-new blue mountain bike, too expensive to replace, unfortunately. The police thought teenagers from your neighborhood might have taken it. Apparently theft is a problem on the farm."
    "I don't know anything about that, sir." I made a special effort to remember my manners, but I didn't dare look at Lissa. What if she told her father who stole the bike?
    "Georgie and I only play here in the daytime," I went on lying, praying Lissa would say nothing. "I know it's private property, but we love the woods."
    Mr. Morrison shrugged. "As long as you don't go into the old house, it's fine with me."
    Keeping my head down, I ran my finger over the initials Georgie had carved into the tabletop. "I'm not allowed to go in there," I said, telling the truth at last.
    "That's good." Mr. Morrison paused to light his pipe. "It's not safe. The floors are in bad shape, and the cellar's full of snakes. Copperheads, someone told me."
    "And it's haunted," Lissa put in. "The old lady who used to own it died in the house. I'd love to see her ghost. Wouldn't you?"
    Mr. Morrison laughed, but I didn't see anything funny about Lissa's question. If Miss Lilian chose to show herself, I doubted my new friend would enjoy the experience.
    "Don't look so solemn, Diana," Mr. Morrison said. "Trust me, there's no ghost in that house. Snakes and spiders and mice. Squirrels. Bats. But no ghost—I guarantee it."
    Lissa leaned toward her father. "One of those policemen thought—"
    Mr. Morrison shook his head in exasperation. "Oh, for goodness sake, Lissa, only ignorant people believe in ghosts."
    Lissa gave him a look I remembered giving my father from time to time. "You don't know everything, Dad."
    If I'd dared, I'd have agreed with her. Mr. Morrison definitely didn't know everything. But neither did Lissa.
    Mr. Morrison smiled and fidgeted with his pipe, which must be one reason people smoke—it gives them something to do while they think of what to say next.
    Changing the subject completely, he turned his attention to me. "Why aren't you and your brother in school today?"
    The question took me by surprise. For a moment, I was speechless. "We don't go—" I started to say, and then checked myself. "We're homeschooled. We