philosopher had begun to pat him on the back, and say,
encouragingly, "There's nowt so far aslew, Bobbie, but good manishment
may set it straight."

Robbie accepted his rebuff on this occasion with undisturbed
equanimity, and, taking a seat on a bench at the back, seemed soon to
be lost in slumber.

The dalesmen are here in strength to-night. Thomas Fell, the miller of
Legberthwaite, is here, with rubicund complexion and fully developed
nose. Here, too, is Thomas's cousin, Adam Rutledge, fresh from an
adventure at Carlisle, where he has tasted the luxury of Doomsdale, a
noisome dungeon reserved for witches and murderers, but sometimes
tenanted by obstreperous drunkards. Of a more reputable class here is
Job Leathes, of Dale Head, a tall, gaunt dalesman, with pale gray
eyes. Here is Luke Cockrigg, too, of Aboonbeck Bank; and stout John
Jackson, of Armboth, a large and living refutation of the popular
fallacy that the companionship of a ghost must necessarily induce such
appalling effects as are said to have attended the apparitions which
presented themselves to the prophets and seers of the Hebrews. John
has slept for twenty years in the room at Armboth in which the
spiritual presence is said to walk, and has never yet seen anything
more terrible than his own shadow. Here, too, at Matthew Branthwaite's
side, sits little blink-eyed Reuben Thwaite, who _has_ seen the
Armboth bogle. He saw it one night when he was returning home from the
Red Lion. It took the peculiar form of a lime-and-mould heap, and,
though in Reuben's case the visitation was not attended by convulsions
or idiocy, the effect of it was unmistakable. When Reuben awoke next
morning he found himself at the bottom of a ditch.

"A wild neet onyways, Mattha," says Reuben, on Robbie Anderson's
retirement. "As I com alang I saw yan of Angus Ray haystacks blown
flat on to the field--doon it went in a bash--in ya bash frae top to
bottom."

"That minds me of Mother Garth and auld Wilson haycocks," said
Matthew.

"Why, what was that?" said Reuben.

"Deary me, what thoo minds it weel eneuf. It was the day Wilson was
cocking Angus hay in the low meedow. Mistress Garth came by in the
evening, and stood in the road opposite to look at the north leets.
'Come, Sarah,' says auld Wilson, 'show us yan of thy cantrips; I
divn't care for thee.' But he'd scarce said it when a whirlblast came
frae the fell and owerturn't iv'ry cock. Then Sarah she laughed oot
loud, and s