an old tree by the side of the gate, seemed to delight in the echo
of its own croaking.

I leaned on my gun and looked; but I had not breath enough to ask
the curate a question. I observed carving on the bark of some of
the trees: 'twas indeed the only mark of human art about the place,
except that some branches appeared to have been lopped, to give a
view of the cascade, which was formed by a little rill at some
distance.

Just at that instant I saw pass between the trees a young lady with
a book in her hand. I stood upon a stone to observe her; but the
curate sat him down on the grass, and leaning his back where I
stood, told me, "That was the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman
of the name of WALTON, whom he had seen walking there more than
once.

"Some time ago," he said, "one HARLEY lived there, a whimsical sort
of man I am told, but I was not then in the cure; though, if I had a
turn for those things, I might know a good deal of his history, for
the greatest part of it is still in my possession."

"His history!" said I. "Nay, you may call it what you please," said
the curate; for indeed it is no more a history than it is a sermon.
The way I came by it was this: some time ago, a grave, oddish kind
of a man boarded at a farmer's in this parish: the country people
called him The Ghost; and he was known by the slouch in his gait,
and the length of his stride. I was but little acquainted with him,
for he never frequented any of the clubs hereabouts. Yet for all he
used to walk a-nights, he was as gentle as a lamb at times; for I