Chapter XIV

Wind-blown trees--Marshlands--September weather--Wainfleet--An
ancient school--The scent of the sea--The rehabilitation of the
old-fashioned ghost--A Lincolnshire mystery--A vain search--Too
much alike--Delightfully indefinite--Halton Holgate--In quest of a
haunted house.

Leaving Wrangle, the country to our right became still more open; for the rest of our way we followed the changeful line of the sea-coast at a distance of about a mile or more inland. The wind, coming unrestrained from the seaward over the flat marsh-like meadow lands, bore to us the unmistakable flavour of the “briny,” its bracing and refreshing salt breath, cool and tonic-laden, was very grateful to our lungs after the soft, soothing country airs that we had been so long accustomed to. The trees here, what few trees there existed that is, were stunted, tortured, and wind-blown to one side; but strangely enough, not as is usually the case, bent inward from the sea but towards it, plainly proving that the strong gales and prevailing winds in this quarter are from the land side, thus reversing the general order of things on our coasts.

Another notable feature of our road--in marked contrast with the early portion of our stage out from Boston--was the fact that for the next nine miles or

[Sidenote: _A LONELY COUNTRY_]

so on to our night’s destination at Wainfleet we passed no villages and saw no churches. It was a lonely stretch of road; for company we had, besides the stunted trees, only the wide earth and open sky; but such loneliness has its charms to the vigorous mind, it was all so suggestive of space and freedom, begetful of broad thinking and expanded views. To look upon Nature thus is to make one realise the littleness of the minor worries of life. The mind is too apt to get cramped at times by cramped surroundings, the vision impresses the brain more than most people are aware. The wild, far-reaching marshlands to our right had a peculiarly plaintive look. Across them the mighty gleams of golden sunlight swept in utter silence, succeeded by vast purple-gray shadows blown out into the eternity of blue beyond: movement of mighty masses but no sound, yet one is so accustomed in this world to associate movement with sound that the ear waits for the latter as something that should follow though it comes not. The prospect was to a certain extent desolate, yet not dreary; the golden green of the long autumn grasses tossing in the wind, the many bright-hued marsh-flowers made the wild waste look almost gay, so splashed with colour was it over all! The vast level landscape stretching away and away to the vague far-off horizon that seemed to fade there into a mystic nothingness--neither earth, nor sea, nor sky--excited within us a sentiment of vastness that words are inadequate to convey, a sentiment very real yet impossible wholly to analyse. One cannot describe the indescribable, and of such moods of the mind one feels the truth of the poet’s dictum that “What’s worth the saying can’t be said.”

Nature here wore an unfamiliar aspect to us; the wide marshland was beautiful, but beautiful with a strange and novel beauty. Now and then were infrequent sign-posts, old and leaning, each with one solitary arm pointing eastward, laconically inscribed “To the Sea,” not to any house or hamlet be it noticed. They might as well have been inscribed, it seemed to us in our philosophy, “To the World’s end!” Here the black sleek rooks and restless white-winged gulls appeared to possess a common meeting ground; the rooks for a wonder were quiet, being silently busy, presumably intent after worms; not so the gulls, for ever and again some of them would rise and whirl round and round, restlessly uttering peevish cries the while. Neither the cry of gull nor caw of rook are musical; in truth, they are grating and harsh, yet they are suggestive of the open air, and are, therefore, pleasing to the ear of the town-dweller, and lull him to rest in spite of their discordance with a sense of deep refreshment.

Shakespeare sings of “the uncertain glory of an April day.” He might, even with greater truth, have written September in place of April; for in the former month the weather is just as changeful, and the skies are finer with more vigorous cloud-scapes; then, too, the fields and foliage “have put their glory on,” and at times under a sudden sun-burst, especially in the clear air that comes after rain, the many-tinted woods become a miracle of colour such that the painter with the richest palette cannot realise. We were reminded of “the uncertain glory of a _September_ day” by a sudden, wholly unexpected, and unwelcome change that had taken place in the weather. In front of us were gradually gathering great banks of sombre clouds that might mean rain; the wind as suddenly had lost its gentleness and blew wild and fitfully, but still the sun was shining brightly all around, converting the winding water-ways and reed-encircled pools of the marshlands into glowing gold. The strong effect of the sunlight on the landscape contrasting with the low-toned gray sky ahead was most striking. But the outlook suggested to us that it would be wiser to hasten on than to loiter about admiring the prospect, for it was a shelterless region. So we sped along to the merry music of the jingling harness, and the measured clatter of our horses’ hoofs on the hard roadway, rounding the many corners with a warning note from the horn, and a pleasant swing of the dog-cart that showed the pace we were going.

[Sidenote: _WILD WEATHER_]

A low, gray sky, a freshing wind,
A cold scent of the misty sea
Before, the barren dunes; behind,
The level meadows far and free.

The approach to Wainfleet was very pretty; just before the town a welcome wood came into sight, then a stream of clear running water crossed by a foot-bridge, next a tall windmill which we passed close by, so close that we could hear the swish, swish, swish of its great sails as they went hurtling round and round in mighty sweeps; at that moment the rain came down, and, though we reached our inn directly afterwards we managed to get pretty wet outwardly during the few minutes’ interval. However, the good-hearted landlady greeted her dripping guests with a ready smile, and ushered us into a tiny, cosy sitting-room, wherein she soon had a wood fire blazing a cheery and ruddy welcome, “just to warm us up a bit.” Thoughtful and kindly landlady, may you prosper and live long to welcome hosts of other travellers! Then “to keep out the cold” (we had no fear of cold, but no matter), a hot cup of tea with _cream_, rich country cream and buttered toast, made its unexpected but not unwelcome appearance, so though our hostel was small and primitive in keeping with the town, we felt that we might have fared much worse in far more pretentious quarters. Looking round our chamber we observed that the door opened with a latch instead of a handle, a trifle that somehow pleased us, one so seldom comes upon that kind of fastening nowadays, even in remote country places.

Soon the storm cleared away, and the sun shone forth quite cheerily again, and though now low in the yellowing western sky, still it shone brilliantly enough to entice us out of doors. We discovered Wainfleet to be a sleepy little market-town, and a decayed seaport--a town with some quaint buildings of past days, not exactly a picturesque place but certainly an interesting one. Wainfleet is a spot where the hand of Time seems not only to be stayed but put back long years; it should be dear to the heart of an antiquary, for it looks so genuinely ancient, so far removed from the modern world and all its rush, bustle, and advantages! It is a spot that might be called intolerably dull, or intensely restful, according to the mind and mood of man. We deemed it the latter, but then we only stopped there a few waking hours (one cannot count the time one sleeps); had we remained longer perhaps we might have thought differently!

[Sidenote: _AN ANCIENT COLLEGE_]

First we made our way to the market square, which, by the way, we had all to ourselves, except for a sleeping dog. In the centre of the square stands the tall and weather-stained shaft of an ancient cross, elevated on a basement of four steps. The top of the shaft is now surmounted by a stone ball in place of the cross of old. This is capped by a well-designed weather-vane; so this ancient structure, raised by religious enthusiasm, and partially destroyed by religious reforming--deforming, some people will have it--zeal, now serves a useful and picturesque purpose, and could hardly be objected to by the sternest Puritan.

Then, wandering about, we espied a fine old brick building of two stories, the front being flanked by octagonal towers, a building not unlike Eton College Chapel on a smaller scale. This proved to be Magdalen School, founded in the fifteenth century by the famous William de Waynflete, Bishop of Winchester, 1459, who was born in the town and who also founded Magdalen College, Oxford, which little history we picked up accidentally that evening in an odd copy of a Lincolnshire Directory we discovered at our hotel. We did not hunt it up of set purpose. I mention this, not wishing to be considered didactic. The building, after all the years bygone, still serves its ancient purpose, more fortunate than many other foundations in this respect whose funds have been diverted to different aims from those originally intended, sometimes perhaps of necessity, but other times, and not seldom, I fear, without such compulsory or sufficient cause. We were told that the top story of this very interesting bit of old-time architecture was the school, and the ground floor the master’s house, a curious arrangement. “Just you ring the bell at the door,” exclaimed our informant, “and I’m sure the master will show you over; it’s a funny old place within.” But we did not like to intrude; moreover, it was getting late and the gloaming was gathering around.

Resuming our wanderings we found ourselves eventually by the side of the narrow river Steeping, up which the small ships of yore used to make their way to the then flourishing port of Wainfleet, or Waynflete as the ancient geographers quaintly had it. There we rested that warm September evening watching, in a dreamy mood, the tranquil gliding and gleaming of the peaceful river, listening to the soothing, liquid gurgling of its quiet flowing water. There was something very poetic about the spot that caused us to weave romances for ourselves, a change from reading them ready-made in novels! So we rested and romanced

While the stars came out and the night wind
Brought up the stream
Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.

We had so far been disappointed in our search

[Sidenote: _THE LAW ON GHOSTS!_]

after a haunted house this journey, but, nothing daunted, the following morning we set forth on the same errand, having heard that there was “a real haunted house” at Halton Holgate, a village situated about eight miles from Wainfleet. Haunted houses are strangely coming into note and repute again; I really thought their day was over for ever, but it seems not so. The good old-fashioned ghost that roams about corridors, and stalks in ancient chambers till cock-crowing time; the ghost of our ancestors and the early numbers of the Christmas illustrated papers; the ghost that groans in a ghastly manner, and makes weird “unearthly” noises in the middle of the night, appears once more much in evidence,--I had nearly said “had come to life again”! He is even written about seriously and complainingly to the papers! In a long letter to the _Standard_ that appeared therein on 22nd April 1896 under the heading of “A Haunted House,” the writer gravely laments his lot in having unwittingly taken a lease of a house from which he and his family were driven, solely on account of the ghostly manifestations that took place there! The letter, which I afterwards learnt was written in absolutely good faith and was no hoax, commences: “In the nineteenth century ghosts are obsolete, but they are costing me two hundred pounds a year. I have written to my lawyer, but am told by him that the English law does not recognise ghosts!” The reading of this caused me to open my eyes in wonderment, the assertions were simply astonishing. Still the law seemed sensible; if any man were allowed to throw up an inconvenient lease on the plea of ghosts where should we be? The writer of the letter, it appears, was an officer in the English army. “Some time ago,” he proceeds, “I left India on furlough, and, being near the end of my service, looked out for a house that should be our home for a few years.... I may say that I am not physically nervous. I have been under fire repeatedly, have been badly wounded in action, and have been complimented on my coolness when bullets were flying about. I was not then afraid of ghosts as far as I knew. I had often been in places where my revolver had to be ready to my hand.... As winter drew on and the nights began to lengthen, strange noises began to be heard.... The governess used to complain of a tall lady, with black heavy eyebrows, who used to come as if to strangle her as she lay in bed. She also described some footsteps, which had passed along the corridor by her door, of some one apparently intoxicated. But in fact no one had left their rooms, and no one had been intoxicated. One night the housemaid, according to her account, was terrified by a tall lady with heavy dark eyebrows, who entered the room and bent over her bed. Another night we had driven into the town to a concert. It was nearly midnight when we returned. Our old Scotch housekeeper, who admitted us, a woman of iron nerves, was trembling with terror. Shortly before our arrival a horrible shriek had rung through the house. To all our questions she only replied, “It was nothing earthly.” The nurse, who was awake with a child with whooping-cough, heard the cry, and says it was simply horrible. One night, lying awake, I distinctly saw the handle of my bedroom door turned, and the door pushed open. I seized my revolver, and ran to the door. The lamp in the long corridor was burning brightly, no one was there, and no one could have got away. Now I can honestly say there is nothing against the house but ghosts. It is a roomy, nice, dry house. There are no ghosts. Are there not?” This is truly astonishing reading considering, as I have already stated, that I know the communication was made in perfectly good faith. A brave soldier to be driven out of a very comfortable and suitable home by a ghost--for thus the story ended!

[Sidenote: _EXTRAORDINARY HAPPENINGS_]

For curiosity I cut out this letter and pasted it in my Commonplace Book. The subject had almost slipped my memory, when, just before starting on our present tour, I read in the _Standard_ of 30th August 1897 of another haunted house in Lincolnshire. The account was long and circumstantial; having perused it carefully I took note of all particulars, determining to visit the house, if possible, and to see if by any means one could elucidate the mystery. As it may interest my readers, I venture here to quote the article _in extenso_; the more am I induced to do this as it happened we did manage to inspect the house at our leisure, and had besides a long conversation with Mrs. Wilson, who claims to have actually seen the ghost! But I am getting previous. It will be noted that the account is of some length, and that the story was not dismissed by the editor of the _Standard_ in a mere paragraph. This then it is:--

From Halton Holgate, a village near Spilsby, Lincolnshire, comes a
story which is causing some sensation among the country folk in the
neighbourhood. For some time rumours of human bones having been
discovered under a brick floor of a farm, near the village, of
strange tappings having been heard, and of a ghost having been
seen, have been afloat, and it was with the intention of trying to
sift the mystery that a Lincoln reporter has just visited the
scene. The farmstead where the sounds are said to have been heard,
and the ghost seen, stands some distance back from the high road,
and is occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Wilson and their servant man. On
being interviewed Mrs. Wilson was at first reluctant to make any
statement, but eventually she narrated the following story:--

“We came here on Lady-day. The first night or so we heard very
strange noises about midnight, as though some one was knocking at
the doors and walls. Once it seemed as though some one was moving
all the things about in a hurry downstairs. Another time the noise
was like a heavy picture falling from the wall; but in the morning
I found everything as right as it was the night before. The servant
man left, saying he dared not stop, and we had to get another. Then
about six weeks ago, I saw ‘something.’ Before getting into bed, my
husband having retired before me, I thought I would go downstairs
and see if the cow was all right, as it was about to calve. I did
so, and when at the foot of the stairs, just as I was about to go
up again, I saw an old man standing at the top and looking at me.
He was standing as though he was very round-shouldered. How I got
past I cannot say, but as soon as I did so I darted into the
bedroom and slammed the door. Then I went to get some water from
the dressing-table, but ‘feeling’ that some one was behind me I
turned round sharply, and there again stood the same old man. He
quickly vanished, but I am quite certain I saw him. I have also
seen him several times since, though not quite so distinctly.”

Mrs. Wilson conducted her interviewer to the sitting-room where
the figure appeared. The floor in one corner was very uneven, and a
day or two ago Mrs. Wilson took up the bricks, with the intention
of relaying them. When she had taken them up she perceived a
disagreeable smell. Her suspicions being aroused, she called her
husband, and the two commenced a minute examination. With a stick
three or four bones were soon turned over, together with a gold
ring and several pieces of old black silk. All these had evidently
been buried in quicklime, the bones and silk having obviously been
burned therewith. The search after this was not further prosecuted,
but a quantity of sand introduced and the floor levelled again. Dr.
Gay, to whom the bones were submitted, stated that they were
undoubtedly human, but he believed them to be nearly one hundred
years old.

[Sidenote: _A GHOST MYSTERY_]

Now it happened, whilst we were at Boston, that we purchased a copy of the _Standard_ of 13th September 1897. On glancing over this our eyes caught sight of the following further and later particulars of this haunted dwelling, now exalted into “The Lincolnshire Ghost Mystery.” The account brought up to date ran thus:--

A Lincoln Correspondent writes: “Despite all efforts, the
Lincolnshire ghost mystery still remains unravelled. That the
noises nightly heard cannot be ascribed to rats has been amply
demonstrated, and other suggestions when acted upon likewise fail
to elucidate the matter. All over the country the affair has
excited the greatest interest, and two London gentlemen have
written asking for permission to stay a night in the house. Other
letters have been received from ‘clairvoyants’ asking for pieces of
the silk or one of the bones discovered under the floor, whilst a
London clergyman has written advising Mrs. Wilson to bury the bones
in consecrated ground, then, he says, ‘the ghostly visitor will
trouble you no longer.’ The owner of the house in question--a
farmstead at Halton Holgate, near Spilsby--has tried to throw
discredit on the whole affair, but such efforts have failed, and it
now transpires that the house was known to be haunted fully thirty
years ago.”

The mystery had quite a promising look; and, coming across this second account of it just as we were approaching the neighbourhood of the scene of ghostly doings, raised our curiosity still more, and increased our determination not to miss this rare opportunity of inspecting a genuine(?) haunted house. See it somehow we must! Now it occurred to us that, as Halton Holgate was within easy distance of Wainfleet, our landlord would surely know something about the story and the people, and that he might enlighten us about sundry details. So in the morning, before starting, we interviewed him in his snug bar, and having shown him the cuttings from the _Standard_ that we had brought with us, awaited his comments. “Oh yes,” he began, “I’ve heard the story, but do not put much account on it myself, nor do I believe any one else about here does. I think the London papers put more store on it than we do. They say noises have been heard in the house at night. Well, you see, sir, the house stands on the top of a hill, and is very exposed to the wind. I’ve been told that there is a small trap-door in the roof at the top of the staircase, which is, or was, quite loose, and at the foot of the staircase is the front door, and they say that when the wind blows at all strong it gets under the door and lifts the trap up and down, and this accounts for the noises, perhaps there may be rats as well. I fancy the noises frightened the woman when she first went into the house, and she imagined the rest. At least that’s my view of the matter from all I’ve heard.” Manifestly the landlord was unbelieving; truly we too were sceptical, but even so, we thought the landlord’s explanation of the nightly noises rather weak, notwithstanding his further remark that he thought the woman was very nervous, and the house being in a lonely situation made her the more so when she was left in it by herself at times, as she frequently was on their first coming there. “But that hardly accounts for her _seeing_ the ghost,” we exclaimed. “Oh! well, I just put that down to nerves; I expect she got frightened when she went there at first, and, as I’ve said, imagined the rest. I don’t believe in ghosts seen by other people.” “And what about the human bones?” we queried. “Well, as to the bones, they say as how when the house was built some soil was taken from the churchyard to fill up the foundations, and that fact would account for the finding of them.”

[Sidenote: _INQUIRIES_]

It certainly seemed to us that the landlord’s theory and explanations rather added to the mystery than helped to clear it up in any way; his reasonings were hardly convincing. We noted one thing in the landlord’s arguments that appeared to us almost as improbable as the ghost story, namely, the way he so readily accounted for the existence of human bones under the floor by the removal of soil from the churchyard, the latter we afterwards discovered being about a mile away from the place; and even allowing such a thing to be permitted at the time of the building of the house--perhaps, by rough guess, some fifty years ago--such a proceeding was most unlikely, as soil could be had close at hand for the digging.

We felt that now we must wait till we got to Halton Holgate for further details. We had an introduction to the rector of the parish there, and we looked forward to hearing his view’s on the matter, for surely he of all people, we reasoned, would be in a position to help us to unravel the mystery. Matters were getting interesting; at last it seemed, after long years of search, that we should be able to run a real “haunted” house to earth; and we determined, if by any means we could arrange to do so, that we would spend a night therein. It would be a novel experience; indeed we felt quite mildly excited at the prospect. Failing this, it would be something if we could converse with a person who declared that she had seen an actual ghost, and who would describe to us what it was like, how it behaved itself, and so forth! We had come across plenty of people in the world, from time to time, who declared to us that they once knew somebody who said that they had seen a ghost, but we could never discover the actual party; for some cause or another he or she was never get-at-able, and I prefer my facts--or fiction--first hand. Stories, like wine, have a wonderful way of improving with age; indeed I think that most stories improve far more rapidly than wine. I once traced a curious three-year-old story back home to the place of its birth, and the original teller did not even recognise his offspring in its altered and improved garb! Tradition is like ivy; give it time and it will completely disguise the original structure.

[Sidenote: _A TALL WINDMILL_]

The weather being fine and having finished our interview with our landlord, we started off without further delay, anxious to have as much time as possible before us for our day’s explorations. The country still continued level, the road winding in and out thereof, as though determined to cover twice as much ground as needful in getting from place to place. Just beyond Wainfleet we passed, close to our way, the tallest windmill I think I have ever seen; it looked more like a lighthouse with sails attached than a proper windmill; it was presumably so built to obtain all the breezes possible, as in a flat country the foliage of the growing trees around is apt to deprive a mill of much of its motive power. In fact an Essex miller once told me that owing to the growth of the trees around his mill since it was first built, he could hardly ever work it in the summer time on account of the foliage robbing him of so much wind. Then as we drove on we caught a peep of low wooded hills ahead, showing an uneven outline, faintly blue, with touches of orange here and there where the sun’s rays rested on the golden autumn leafage, now lighting up one spot, now another. We were delighted to observe that our road led apparently in the direction of these hills, for they gave promise of pleasant wanderings.

Farther on we reached a pretty little village, with its church picturesquely crowning a knoll. Here we pulled up for a moment to ask the name of the place from a man at work by the roadside. “This be I-r-b-y,” he responded, spelling not pronouncing the name, somewhat to our surprise; so we asked him why he did so. “Well, sir, you see there be another village not far off called Orby, only it begins with a ‘O’ and ours begins with a ‘I,’ and the names do sound so alike when you speaks them, that we generally spells them to strangers to make sure. Often folk comes here who wants to go to Orby, and often folk who wants to come here gets directed to Orby. One of the names ought to be changed, it would save a lot of trouble and loss of temper.” Then we asked him how far it was to Halton Holgate, and he said he thought it was about three miles, but he was not quite sure, not being a good judge of distances; “it might be more or it might be less,” which was rather vague. Indeed we noticed generally in Lincolnshire how hard it was to obtain a precise reply to any query as to distance. Here is a sample of a few of the delightfully indefinite answers made to us from time to time when seeking information on this point. “Oh! not very far.” “Some goodish bit on yet.” “Just a little farther on.” “A longish way off.” “A few miles more.” To the last reply a further query as to how many miles only brought the inconclusive response, “Oh! not many.”

In due time we bade good-bye to the level country, for our road now led us up quite a respectable hill and through a rock cutting that was spanned at one point by a rustic bridge. It was a treat to see the great gray strong rocks after our long wandering in Fenland. The character of the

scenery was entirely changed, we had touched the fringe of the Wold region, the highlands of Lincolnshire--“Wide, wild, and open to the air.” At the top of the hill we arrived at a scattered little village, and this proved to be Halton Holgate. The church stood on one side of the road, the rectory on the other; to the latter we at once made our way, trusting to learn something authoritative about the haunted house from the rector, and hoping that perhaps we might obtain an introduction to the tenant through him. Unfortunately the rector was out, and not expected back till the evening. This was disappointing. The only thing to do now was to find our way to the house, and trust to our usual good fortune to obtain admission and an interview with the farmer’s wife.

[Sidenote: _QUESTIONING A NATIVE_]

We accosted the first native we met. Of him we boldly asked our way to the “haunted house,” for we did not even know the name of it. But our query was sufficient, evidently the humble homestead had become famous, and had well established its reputation. We were directed to a footpath which we were told to follow across some fields, “it will take you right there.” Then we ventured to ask the native if he had heard much about the ghost. He replied laconically, “Rather.” Did he believe in it? “Rather” again. We were not gaining much by our queries, the native did not appear to be of a communicative nature, and our attempts to draw him out were not very successful. To a further question if many people came to see the house, we received the same reply. Manifestly for some reason the native was disinclined to discuss the subject. This rather perplexed us, for on such matters the country folk, as a rule, love to talk and enlarge. As he left us, however, he made the somewhat enigmatical remark, “I wish as how we’d got a ghost at our house.” Was he envious of his neighbour’s fame? we wondered, or what did he mean? Could he possibly deem that a ghost was a profitable appendage to a house on the show principle, insomuch as it brought many people to see it? Or were his remarks intended to be sarcastic?

Having proceeded some way along the footpath we met a clergyman coming along. We at once jumped to the conclusion that he must be the rector, so we forthwith addressed him as such; but he smilingly replied, “No, I’m the Catholic priest,” and a very pleasant-looking priest he was, not to say jovial. We felt we must have our little joke with him, so exclaimed, “Well, never mind, you’ll do just as well. We’re ghost-hunting. We’ve heard that there’s a genuine haunted house hereabouts, an accredited article, not a fraud. We first read about it in the _Standard_, and have come to inspect it. Now, can you give us any information on the point? Have you by any chance been called in to lay the ghost with candle, bell, and book? But perhaps it is a Protestant ghost beyond Catholic control?” Just when we should have been serious we felt in a bantering mood. Why, I hardly know, but smile on the world and it smiles back at you. Now the priest had smiled on us, and we retaliated. Had he been austere, probably we should have been grave. Just then this ghost-hunting expedition struck us as being intensely comical. The priest smiled again, we smiled our best in reply. We intuitively felt that his smile was a smile of unbelief--in the ghost, I mean. “Well, I’m afraid,” he replied, “the worthy body is of a romantic temperament. I understand that the bones are not human bones after all, but belonged to a deceased pig. You know in the off-season gigantic gooseberries, sea-serpents, and ghosts flourish in the papers. You cannot possibly miss the house. When you come to the end of the next field, you will see it straight before you,” and so we parted. Somehow the priest’s remarks damped our ardour; either he did not or would not take the ghost seriously!

[Sidenote: _GHOST-HUNTING_]