, man," said Corbett the
carpenter, "that will bring him to if anything will."

The simple, but powerful remedy was promptly administered by Mary, and
after some minutes the paroxysms of the disorder grew less violent, and
the sick man, with a heavy groan, unclosed his large dark eyes, and
gazed vacantly around him,--his teeth still chattering, and his muscular
limbs trembling like one in an ague fit.

"Courage, measter," said the labourer, giving him a friendly slap on the
shoulder. "There's nought that can hurt thee here. See, the fire burns
cheerfully, and 'tis human creturs an' friends that are about thee."

"Is it gone?" groaned the prostrate form, closing his eyes as if to shut
out some frightful apparition,--"gone for ever?"

"Ay, vanished clean away into the black night."

"What did he see?" cried a chorus of eager voices; and every one in the
room crowded round the fallen man.

"He seed old Mason's ghost on the bridge," said the labourer, "an' I
seed it too. An ugsome looking cretur it wor, an' I wor mortal skeared,
howdsomever, when measter screeched an' fell, I forgot to look on 'un
agin--I wor so skeared about 'un. This good man com'd along, as luck
wud ha' it, and helped me to carry 'un in here. For my part, I thought
as how Measter Noah was dead; an' as he owed me four pounds and three
shillings for my harvestin' with 'un, an' I had no writin' to show for
it, I thought it wud be a bad job for me an' the fam'ly."

"True, neibor," said the other bearer, sententiously. "The sight of the
ghost wor nothin' to that."

"And did the ghost speak to you?" said the little tailor.

"Na, na. I b'leeve that them gentry from the other world are sworn over
by Satan to hold their tongues, an' never speak unless spoken to.
Howdsomever, this ghost never said a word; it stood by centre arch o'
bridge, wrapped up in a winding sheet, that flickered all over like
moonlight; an' it shook ter heed, an' glowered on us with two fiery eyes
as big as saucers, an' then sunk down an' vanished."

"Oh, it was him--him!" again groaned forth the terror-stricken man,
rising to a sitting posture. "He looked just as _he_ did, that
night--that night we found him murdered."

"Of whom do you speak, Master Cotton?" said the little tailor.

"Of Squire Carlos."

"Squire Carlos! Did the ghost resemble him? He has been dead long enough
to sleep in peace in his grave. It is more than twenty years agone
since he was murdered by that worth