without taking an interest in their story, the manner of their death,
and the concern of the relatives who follow their remains so tearfully
to the grave."

"Then," replied I, taking a seat beside the sexton, "methinks you
could relate some interesting tales."

Again the withering smile that I had before observed passed over the
face of the sexton, as he answered,--

"I am no story teller, sir; I deal in fact, not fiction. Yes, yes, I
could chronicle some strange events. But of all things I know, there
is nothing stranger than the melancholy history of the three brides."

"The three brides?"

"Ay. Do you see three hillocks yonder, side by side? There they sleep,
and will till the last trumpet comes wailing and wailing through the
heart of these lone hills, with a tone so strange and stirring, that
the dead will start from their graves at its first awful note. Then
will come the judgment and the retribution. But to my tale. Look
there, sir; on yonder hill you may observe a little isolated house,
with a straggling fence in front, and a few stunted apple trees on the
ascent behind it. It is sadly out of repair now, and the garden is all
overgrown with weeds and brambles, and the whole place has a desolate
appearance. If the wind were high now, you might hear the old crazy
shutters flapping against the sides, and the wind tearing the gray
shingles off the roof. Many years ago, there lived in that house an
old man and his son, who cultivated the few acres of arable land which
belong to it.