The fright killed my mother. Before next spring she fell into a
decline, and early next fall the old man--for he was an old man now--had
to delve her grave. After this he went feebly about his work, but held
on, being wishful for me to step into his shoon, which I began to do as
soon as I was fourteen, having outgrown the rickets by that time.


But one cool evening in September month, father was up digging in the
yard alone: for 'twas a small child's grave, and in the loosest soil,
and I was off on a day's work, thatching Farmer Tresidder's stacks.
He was digging away slowly when he heard a rattle at the lych-gate, and
looking over the edge of the grave, saw in the dusk a man hitching his
horse there by the bridle.

'Twas a coal-black horse, and the man wore a scarlet coat all powdered
with pilm; and as he opened the gate and came over the graves, father
saw that 'twas the dashing dragoon. His face was still a slaty-grey,
and clammy with sweat; and when he spoke, his voice was all of a
whisper, with a shiver therein.

"Bedman," says he, "go to the hedge and look down the road, and tell me
what you see."

My father went, with his knees shaking, and came back again.

"I see a woman," says he, "not fifty yards down the road. She is
dressed in black, an' has a veil over her face; an' she's comin' this
way."

"Bedman," answers the dragoon, "go to the gate an' look back along the