“You have read the letter, you say?”

“Yes; it was an important one, I suppose.  But I fancy that it was not read by any one but the dear grandmother till after poor Cuthbert Melcombe’s sad death, and then I think the family lawyer found it among her papers when she had to inherit the estate.  He may have wanted evidence, perhaps, that Augustus Melcombe was dead.”

“Perhaps so,” said Valentine.  “It is just of the usual sort, I see, this story; a blue light hovering about the head.  The ghost walked in his shroud, and she saw the seams in it.”

“Yes, and then it passed through the door without opening it,” added Laura, who was present.  “How dear grandmother disliked the woman!  She showed a sort of fear, too, of that door, which made us sure she believed the story.”

“Very natural,” said Mrs. Melcombe. sighing, “that she could not bear to have her misfortunes made a subject for idle talk and curiosity.  I am sure I should feel keenly hurt if it was ever said that my poor innocent darling haunted the place.”

“Had anything been said against him in his lifetime?” Valentine next ventured to ask.  “Had he done anything which was likely to put it into people’s heads to say he might be uneasy in his grave?”

“Oh no, nothing of the sort,” said Laura.  “And then old Becky is thought to have added circumstances to the story, so that it came from that cause to be discredited of late.  It is almost forgotten now, and we never believed it at all; but it certainly is an odd coincidence that she should have told it of a man who never came back to contradict her, and who really did die, it appears, about that time.”

Valentine accordingly went in the course of a few days to find old Becky Maddison.  The cottage was not far from the village.  Only the daughter was below, and when Valentine had told his name and errand, she went up-stairs, perhaps to prepare her mother, to whom she presently conducted him.

Valentine found her a poor bedridden creature, weak, frail, and querulous.  She was in a clean and moderately comfortable bed, and when she saw him her puckered face and faded eyes began to look more intelligent and attentive, and she presently remarked on his likeness to his father.

A chair was set for him, and sitting down, he showed a sovereign in his palm, and said, “I want to hear the ghost story; tell it me as it really was, and you shall have this.”

A shabby book was lying on the bed.

“Her can tell it no better’n it’s told here,” said the daughter.

Valentine took up the book.  It was the same that he knew; the blue light and the shroud appeared in it.  He put the money into her hand.  “No,” he said; “you shall have the money beforehand.  Now, then, say what you really saw.”

Old Becky clutched the gold, and said, in a weak, whimpering tone, “‘Tain’t often I tell it—­ain’t told it sin’ Christmas marnin’, old Madam couldn’t abide to hear on’t.”