“Why, Ancient,” said I, “you are early abroad this morning!”

“Lord!” he exclaimed, scarcely above a whisper.

“Come in and sit down,” said I.

“Lord!  Lord!” he murmured, “an’ a-satin’ ‘is breakfus’ tu.  Lordy, Lord!”

“Yes,” I nodded, “and, such as it is, you are heartily welcome to share it—­sit down,” and I drew up my other chair.

“A-eatin’ ‘is breakfus’ as ever was!” repeated the old man, without moving.

“And why not, Ancient?”

“Why not?” he repeated disdainfully. “‘Cause breakfus’ can’t be ate by a corp’, can it?”

“A corpse, Ancient; what do you mean?”

“I means as a corp’ aren’t got no right to eat a breakfus’—­no!”

“Why, I—­no, certainly not.”

“Consequently, you aren’t a corp’, you’ll be tellin me.”

“I?—­no, not yet, God be thanked!”

“Peter,” said the Ancient, shaking his head, and mopping his brow with a corner of his neckerchief, “you du be forever a-givin’ of me turns, that ye du.”

“Do I, Ancient?”

“Ay—­that ye du, an’ me such a aged man tu—­such a very aged man.  I wonders at ye, Peter, an’ me wi’ my white ’airs—­oh, I wonders at ye!” said he, sinking into the chair I had placed for him and regarding me with a stern, reproving eye.

“If you will tell me what I have been guilty of—­” I began.

“I come down ’ere, Peter—­so early as it be, to—­I come down ’ere to look for your corp’, arter the storm an’ what ’appened last night.  I comes down ’ere, and what does I find?—­I finds ye a-eatin’ your breakfus’—­just as if theer never ’adn’t been no storm at all—­no, nor nothin’ else.”

“I’m sure,” said I, pouring out a second cup of tea, “I’m sure I would sooner you should find my corpse than any one else, and am sorry to have disappointed you again, but really, Ancient—­”

“Oh, it aren’t the disapp’intment, Peter—­I found one corp’, an’ that’s enough, I suppose, for an aged man like me—­no, it aren’t that—­it’s findin’ ye eatin’ your breakfus’—­just as if theer ’ad ‘adn’t been no storm—­no, nor yet no devil, wi’ ‘orns an’ a tail, a-runnin’ up an’ down in the ’Oller ‘ere, an’ a-roarin’ an’ a-bellerin’, as John Pringle said, last night.”

“Ah! and what else did John Pringle say?” I inquired, setting down my cup.

“Why, ’e come into ‘The Bull’ all wet an’ wild-like, an’ wi’ ’is two eyes a-stickin’ out like gooseberries!  ‘E comes a-bustin’ into the ‘tap’—­an’ never says a word till ’e’s emptied Old Amos’s tankard—­that bein’ nighest.  Then—­’By Goles!’ says ’e, lookin’ round on us all, ‘by Goles!  I jest seen the ghost!’ ‘Ghost!’ says all on us, sittin’ up, ye may be sure, Peter.  ‘Ay,’ says John, lookin’ over ’is shoulder, scared-like, ’seed un wi’ my two eyes, I did, an’ what’s more, I heerd un tu!’ ‘Wheer?’ says all on us, beginnin’ to look over our shoulders likewise.  ‘Wheer?’ says John, ’wheer should