ng," said Jane.

"No, no: it was Oliver Cromwell--old Noll himself!" put in another
voice.

"I tell you, no such thing," said Jane. "It was the last King. I
heard it from them that saw it, at least the lady's cousin. 'Twas
in the long gallery, in a suit of plain black velvet, with white
muslin ruffles and cravat quilled very neat. Why do you laugh, Miss
Woodford?"

This was too much for Anne, who managed to say, "Who was his
laundress?"

"I tell you I heard it from them that told no lies. The gentleman
could swear to it. He took a candle to him, and there was nought
but the wainscot behind. Think of that."

"And that we should be living here!" said another voice. "I never
venture about the big draughty place alone at night," said the
laundress.

"No! nor I would not for twenty princes," added the sempstress.

"Nay, I have heard steps," said Mrs. Royer, "and wailing--wailing.
No wonder after all that has happened here. Oh yes, steps as of the
guard being turned out!"

"That is like our Squire's manor-house, where--"

Every one contributed a story, and only the announcement of Her
Majesty's approach put an end to these reminiscences.

Anne held to her purpose. She had looked forward to this time of
solitude, for she wanted leisure to consider the situation, and
fairly to revolve the pleas by which Father Crump had shaken her,
more in feeling than in her reason, and made her question whether
her allegiance to her mother and uncle, and her disgust at
interested conversions, were not making her turn aside from what
might be the only true Church, the Mother of Saints, and therewith
perversely give up earthly advancement. But, oh! how to write to
her uncle.

The very intention made her imagination and memory too powerful for
the consideration of controversy. She went back first to a merry
Hallowmas Eve long ago, among the Archfield party and other
Winchester friends, and how the nuts had bounced in a manner which
made the young ones shout in ecstasy of glee, but seemed to
displease some of the elders, and had afterwards been the occasion
of her being told that it was all folly, and therewith informed of
Charles Archfield's contract to poor little Alice Fitzhubert. Then
came other scenes. All the various ghostly tales she had heard, and
as she sat with her knitting in the shaded room with no sound but
the soft breathing of her little charge in his cradle, no light save
from a shaded lamp and the