ess and desertion that pleased, while it thrilled me.

No sound was here audible but the softened rush of waters, and that
sweet note of home and safety, the distant baying of the watch-dog, now
and then broken by the sharper rattle of the carriage-wheels upon the
dry road. But while I looked upon the sad and solemn scene before me,
these sounds were interrupted by one which startled, and, indeed, for a
moment, froze me with horror. The sound was a cry, or rather a howl of
despairing terror, such as I have never heard before or since uttered by
human voice. It broke from the stillness of the church-yard; but I saw
no figure from which it proceeded--though this circumstance, indeed, was
scarcely wonderful, as the broken ground, the trees, tall weeds, and
tomb-stones afforded abundant cover for any person who might have sought
concealment. This cry of unspeakable agony was succeeded by a silence;
and, I confess, my heart throbbed strangely, when the same voice
articulated, in the same tone of agony,

"Why will you trouble the dead? Who can torment us before the time? I
will come to you in my flesh, though after my skin worms destroy this
body--and you shall speak to me, lace to face."

This strange address was followed by another cry of despair, which died
away as suddenly as it was raised.

I never could tell why it was I was not more horror-stricken than I
really was by this mysterious, and, all things considered, even terrible
interpellation. It was not until the silence had again returned, and the
faint rustling of the frosty breeze among the crisp weeds crept toward
me like the stealthy approach of some unearthly influence, that I felt a
superstitious terror gradually inspire me, which hurried me at an
accelerated pace from the place. A few minutes, and I heard the friendly
voice of my charioteer hallooing to me from the summit of the hill.

Reassured, as I approached him, I abated my speed.

"I saw you standing on the stile, sir, by the church-yard," he said, as
I drew near, "and I ask your pardon for not giving you the hint before,
but they say it is not lucky; and I called to you loud and lusty to come
away, sir; but I see you are nothing the worse of it."

"Why, what is there to be afraid of there, my good fellow?" I asked,
affecting as much indifference as I was able.

"Why, sir," said the man, throwing an uneasy look in the direction,
"they do say there's a bad spirit haunts it; and nobody in these parts