berried in wan grave." Caleb paused for breath.

"And the ghosts?"
said Mr. Fogo, much interested.

"Some ha' seed her rowin' about here in a boat, o' dark nights; and
others swear to seein' all the leppards a-marchin' down wi' her
corpse to the berryin'-ground. Leastways, that's the tale.
Jan Spettigue was the last as seed 'em, but as he be'eld three devils
on his own chimbly-piece the week arter, along o' too much rum,
p'r'aps he made a mistake. Anyways, 'tes a moral yarn, an' true to
natur'. These young wimmen es a very detarmined sex, whether 'tes a
leppard in the case or a Rooshan."

Mr. Fogo had fallen into a reflective silence.

"'Tes a thousand pities this 'ere place should be empty, wi' a
lean-to Crystal Pallis--by which I means a conserva-tory, sir--an'
gardens, an' room for a cow, an' a Pyll o' ets own--"

"A what?"

"Pyll, sir, otherwise a creek--'c, r, double e, k--an arm o' the
sea,' as the spellin' book says."

A curious fascination stole over Mr. Fogo as he looked earnestly at
the house round which these memories hung. Standing on an angle
formed by the bending river, and the little creek, and behind a
screen of trees--elms almost too old to feel the sap of spring, a
chestnut or two, and a few laurels and sombre firs, that had cracked