his, I confess for my pairt I won'er
mair 'at we're left at peace at a', an' that they comena swarmin' aboot
's i' the nicht, like black doos. Ye'll maybe say they canna, an' ye'll
maybe say they come; but sae lang as they plague me nae waur nor oor
freen' upo' the tither side o' the wa', I canna say I care that mickle.
But I think whiles hoo thae ghaists maun lauch at them that lauchs as
gien there was nae sic craturs i' the warl'! For my pairt I naither
fear them nor seek til them: I'll be ane wi' them mysel' afore
lang!--only I wad sair wuss an' houp to gang in amo' better behavet
anes nor them 'at gangs aboot plaguin' folk."

"You speak the best of sense, mistress Brookes," said Donal; "but I
should like to understand why the poor hanged fellow should have such
an objection to having his skull laid in the ground! Why had he such a
fancy for his old bones? Could he be so closely associated with them
that he could not get on without the plenty of fresh air they got him
used to when they hung on the gallows? And why did it content him to
have only his head above ground? It is bewildering! We couldn't believe
our bones rise again, even if Paul hadn't as good as told us they
don't! Why should the dead haunt their bones as if to make sure of
having their own again?"

"But," said mistress Brookes, "beggin' yer pardon, sir, what ken ye as
to what they think? Ye may ken better, but maybe they dinna; for haena
ye jist allooed that sic conduc' as I hae describit is no fit, whaever
be guilty o' the same, whether rowdy laddies i' the streets, or craturs
ye canna see i' the hoose? They may think they'll want their banes by
an' by though ye ken better; an' whatever you wise folk may think the
noo, ye ken it's no that lang sin' a' body, ay, the best o' folk,
thoucht the same; an' there's no a doobt they a' did at the time that
man was hangt. An' ye maun min' 'at i' the hoose the heid o' 'im wudna
waste as it wud i' the yerd!"

"But why bother about his heid more than the rest of his bones?"

"Weel, sir, I'm thinking a ghaist, ghaist though he be, canna surely be
i' twa places at ance. He could never think to plague til ilk bane o'
finger an' tae was gethert i' the cellar! That wud be houpless! An'
thinkin' onything o' his banes, he micht weel think maist o' 's heid,
an' keep an e'e upo' that. Nae mony ghaists hae the chance o' seein'
sae muckle o' their banes as this ane, or sayin' to themsel's, 'Yon's
mine, whaur it swings!' S