lows returning. In a few minutes I heard them approaching.
They were singing snatches of songs they had been entertained with at
Graylingham, and chatting and laughing as they went down Wilderness
Road towards Raxton. As they passed the bungalow and adjoining mill
there was a silence.

I heard one man say: ''Ez Tom Wynne's ghooast bin seen here o' late?'

'Nooa, but the Squoire's 'ez,' said another.

'_I_ say they've both on 'em bin seed,' exclaimed a third voice,
which I recognised to be that of old Lantoff of the 'Fishing
Smack'--'leaseways, if they ain't bin seed they've bin 'eeared. One
Saturday arternoon old Sal Gunn wur in the church a-cleanin' The Hall
brasses, an' jist afore sundown, as she wur a-comin' away, she
'eeared a awful scrimmage an squealin' in the crypt, and she 'eeared
the v'ice o' the Squoire a-callin' out, and she 'eeared Tom Wynne's
v'ice a-cussin' an' a-swearin' at 'im. And more nor that, Sal told me
that on the night when the Squoire wur buried, she seed Tom
a-draggin' the Squoire's body along the churchyard to the cliff; only
she never spoke on it at the time. And Sal says she larnt in a dream
that the moment as Tom went and laid 'is 'and on that 'ere dimind
cross in the coffin, up springs Squoire and claps 'old o' Tom's
throat, and Tom takes 'old on him, and drags him out o' the church,
meanin' to chuck him over the cliffs, when God o' mighty, as wur
a-keepin' 'is eye on Tom all the time, he jist lets go o' the cliffs
and down they falls, and kills Tom, an' buries him an' Squoire tew.'

'Did you say Sal seed all that in a dream? or did she see it in ole
ale, Muster Lantoff?' said Shales.

'Well,' replied Lantoff, as the party turned past the bungalow,
'p'raps it wur ole ale as made me see in this very bungaler when I
wur a bor the ghooast o' the great Gypsy lady whose pictur hangs up
at the Hall, her as they used to call the old Squoire's Witch-wife.'
Soon the singing and laughing were renewed; and I stood and listened
to the sounds till they died away in the distance. Then I unlocked
the church door and entered.

V

As I walked down an aisle, the echoes of my footsteps seemed almost
loud enough to be heard on the Wilderness Road. No one could have a
more contemptuous disbelief in ghosts than I, and yet the man's words
about the ghost of Fenella Stanley haunted me. When I reached the
heavy nailed door leading down to the crypt, I lit the lantern. The
rusty key turned so stiffly in t