“We have his sheet,” replied her son; “and that is due solely to my determination.  How could I have acted better?”

“You should have grasped the man, not the sheet,” said the widow, “and pummelled him till he cried out and dropped the money-bag.”

“Live and learn,” said the cobbler.  The next night he went out as before, and this time reached the churchyard unmolested.  He was just climbing the stile, when he again saw what seemed to be a white figure standing near the church.  As before, it proved solid, and this time he pummelled it till his fingers bled, and for very weariness he was obliged to go home and relate his exploits.  The ghost had not cried out, however, nor even so much as moved, for it was neither more nor less than a tall tombstone shining white in the moonlight.

“Alack-a-day!” cried the old woman, “that I should have a son with so little wit as to beat a gravestone till his knuckles are sore!  Now if he had covered it with something black that it might not alarm timid women or children, that would at least have been an act of charity.”

“Live and learn,” said the cobbler.  The following night he again set forth, but this time in another direction.  As he was crossing a field behind his house he saw some long pieces of linen which his mother had put out to bleach in the dew.

“More ghosts!” cried the shoemaker, “and they know who is behind them.  They have fallen flat at the sound of my footsteps.  But one must think of others as well as oneself, and it is not every heart that is as stout as mine.”  Saying which he returned to the house for something black to throw over the prostrate ghosts.  Now the kitchen chimney had been swept that morning, and by the back door stood a sack of soot.

“What is blacker than soot?” said the cobbler; and taking the sack, he shook it out over the pieces of linen till not a thread of white was to be seen.  After which he went home, and boasted of his good deeds.

The widow now saw that she must be more careful as to what she said; so, after weighing the matter for some time, she suggested to the cobbler that the next night he should watch for ghosts at home; “for they are to be seen,” said she, “as well when one is in bed as in the fields.”

“There you are right,” said the cobbler, “for I have this day read of a ghost that appeared to a man in his own house.  The candles burnt blue, and when he had called thrice upon the apparition, he became senseless.”

“That was his mistake,” said the old woman.  “He should have turned a deaf ear, and even pretended to slumber; but it is not every one who has courage for this.  If one could really fall asleep in the face of the apparition, there would be true bravery.”

“Leave that to me,” said the cobbler.  And the widow went off chuckling, to herself, “If he comes to any mischance by holding his tongue and going to sleep, ill-luck has got him by the leg, and counsel is wasted on him.”