and was itself crossed by another road, thus forming a “four-want-way,” where suicides were buried in times past.  This road was the old high-road, where the mail coach ran, and along which, on such a night as this, a hundred years ago, a horseman rode his last ride.  As he passed the church on his fatal journey did anything warn him how soon his headless body would be buried beneath its shadow?  Bill wondered.  He wondered if he were old or young—­what sort of a horse he rode—­whose cruel hands dragged him into the shadow of the yews and slew him, and where his head was hidden, and why.  Did the church look just the same, and the moon shine just as brightly, that night a century ago?  Bully Tom was right.  The weathercock and moon sit still, whatever happens.  The boy watched the gleaming high road as it lay beyond the dark aisle of trees, till he fancied he could hear the footfalls of the solitary horse—­and yet, no!  The sound was not upon the hard road, but nearer; it was not the clatter of hoofs, but something—­and a rustle—­and then Bill’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins, as he saw a white figure, wrapped in what seemed to be a shroud, glide out of the shadow of the yews and move slowly down the lane.  When it reached the road it paused, raised a long arm warningly towards him for a moment, and then vanished in the direction of the churchyard.

What would have been the consequence of the intense fright the poor lad experienced is more than anyone can say, if at that moment the church clock had not begun to strike nine.  The familiar sound, close in his ears, roused him from the first shock, and before it had ceased he contrived to make a desperate rally of his courage, flew over the road, and crossed the two fields that now lay between him and home without looking behind him.

CHAPTER III.

     “It was to her a real grief of heart, acute, as children’s
     sorrows often are.

“We beheld this from the opposite windows—­and, seen thus from a little distance, how many of our own and of other people’s sorrows might not seem equally trivial, and equally deserving of ridicule!”

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

When Bill got home he found the household busy with a much more practical subject than that of ghosts and haunted yew-trees.  Bessy was ill.  She had felt a pain in her side all the day, which towards night had become so violent that the doctor was sent for, who had pronounced it pleurisy, and had sent her to bed.  He was just coming downstairs as Bill burst into the house.  The mother was too much occupied about her daughter to notice the lad’s condition; but the doctor’s sharp eyes saw that something was amiss, and he at once inquired what it was.  Bill hammered and stammered, and stopped short.  The doctor was such a tall, stout, comfortable-looking man, he looked as if he couldn’t believe in ghosts.  A slight frown, however, had come over his comfortable face, and he laid two fingers on Bill’s wrist as he repeated his question.