“No!” he rejoined emphatically, “nor yet doth a button form part of the habiliments of a ghost.”

But not a sound came from above:  and though Courage and Charity peered upwards with ever-increasing anxiety, the fast gathering darkness effectually hid the mystery which lurked within that elm.

“I vow that there’s something up there, mistress,” said the youth with sudden determination.

“Could it be bats, master?” she queried with a shudder.

“Nay! but bats do not wear buttons,” he replied sententiously.  “Yet of a surety, I mean to make an investigation of the affair as that old fool Hymn-of-Praise would say.”

Whereupon, heedless of Mistress Charity’s ever-growing agitation, he ran towards the boundary wall of the park, and vaulted the low gate with an agile jump even as she uttered a pathetic appeal to him not to leave her alone in the dark.

Fear had rooted the girl to the spot.  She dared not move away, fearful lest her running might entice that mysterious owner of the brown button to hurry in her track.  Yet she would have loved to follow Master Courage, and to put at least a gate and wall between herself and those terrible elms.

She was just contemplating a comprehensive and vigorous attack of hysterics when she heard Master Courage’s voice from the other side of the gate.

“Hist!  Hist, mistress!  Quick!”

She gathered up what shreds of valor she possessed and ran blindly in the direction whence came the welcome voice.

“I pray you take this,” said the youth, who was holding a wooden bucket out over the gate, “whilst I climb back to you.”

“But what is it, master?” she asked, as—­obeying him mechanically—­she took the bucket from him.  It was heavy, for it was filled almost to the brim with a liquid which seemed very evil-smelling.

The next moment Master Courage was standing beside her.  He took the bucket from her and then walked as rapidly as he could with it back towards the elm tree.

“It will help me to dislodge the bats, mistress,” he said enigmatically, speaking over his shoulder as he walked.

She followed him—­excited but timorous—­until together they once more reached the spot, where Master Courage’s amorous declarations had been so rudely interrupted.  He put the bucket down beside him, and rubbed his hands together whilst uttering certain sounds which betrayed his glee.

Then only did she notice that he was carrying under one arm a long curious-looking instrument—­round and made of tin, with a handle at one end.

She looked curiously into the bucket and at the instrument.

“’Tis the tar-water used for syringing the cattle,” she whispered, “ye must not touch it, master.  Where did you find it?”

“Just by the wall,” he rejoined.  “I knew it was kept there.  They wash the sheep with it to destroy the vermin in them.  This is the squirt for it,” he added calmly, placing the end of the instrument in the liquid, “and I will mayhap destroy the vermin which is lodged in that elm tree.”