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"Music?"

"Piana music. Sweet music."

"Did you ever ask Mr. Tatterton about it?"

"No, Miss Annie. Didn't have to. Saw it in his eyes." "Saw what?"

"That he heard and saw the same things I did. But you forgets all about that, Miss Annie. You get strong and better fast. Ole Rye will cook up a storm now that there's someone to cook for."

I thought a moment.

"Rye, is there a horse here called Scuttles?"

"Scuttles, Miss Annie? There ain't no horses now. H'ain't been any for some time. Scuttles?" His eyes went from side to side as he thought, scanning his memory. I saw him stop thinking, a realization coming to him.

"Scuttles, why that was the name Miss Jillian gave to her ridin' pony. She lived on a horse ranch when she was a young girl. I remembers her talkin ,,bout that pony all the time. But we never had one here named Scuttles. Her horse was called Abdulla Bar. A devilish animal," he added, his eyes

brightening with fear.

"Why do you say that, Rye?"

"He let no one but Miss Jillian ride 'im, so Mr. Tatterton kept everyone else off, 'cept that one terrible time. But it wasn't his fault," he added quickly.

"What terrible

time, Rye?"

"Oh, this ain't the time to talk 'bout sad things, Miss Annie. You got your own hardship ta bear."

"Please, Rye, I don't want to ask Mr. Tatterton, but I want to know."

He looked back and stepped closer to the bed. He shook his head and lowered his eyes.

"It was his brother, Mr. Troy, Miss Annie. One day he jes' hopped on that stallion and rode him into the sea. Only a Devil horse woulda done it. Any other horse woulda refused to go in."

"So that's what Drake meant when he said Troy committed suicide. He rode my great-grandmother's horse into the ocean and--"

"And he drowned, Miss Annie. Seems this house has had more'n its share of hardships ta bear, hasn't it, Miss Annie?" He shook his head.

"Sometimes it's harder ta live ta a ripe ole age. Yer haunted by the many bad memories and ya hear the many lonely spirits."

"But why did he do such a thing, Rye?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know," he said quickly; too quickly, I thought. "Troy was as handsome a young man as yall ever see, and talented, too. He made many of the toys, ya know. Only, I never called 'em toys. They was more like art." He shook his head and smiled, recalling. "Lil houses and lil people, some made inta music boxes."

"Music boxes?"

"Beautiful melodies . . . like soft piana music."

"Chopin," I muttered. The memory of my mother's musical cottage sent my heart pitterpattering, overwhelming me with a flush of sadness.

"What's that, Miss Annie?"

I shifted my eyes away quickly, not wanting him to see my tears.

"I was just thinking of a composer."

"Oh. Well, I best get my ole self back down ta the kitchen and see what Roger's up to. He's my-- what do you call 'im--apprentice. Ole Rye can't expects he'll be workin' in that kitche forever, and Mr. Tatterton needs a good cook when I gets the call to join my maker. 'Course, rights now, I play deaf to that, Miss Annie," he said, smiling widely. We laughed.