His buryin' gown. 'Tis only a sperit, a ghost, that walks in a shroud.
I'n told that oft enough, I _should_ know." She spoke in a querulous
tone, as one having reasonable cause for complaint.

"Well," said Valentine, after a pause, "if the shroud was not white,
what colour was it?"

"Mid have been black for aught I know, 'twere afore sunrise; but it mid
have been a dark blue, and I think 'twas. There were a grete wash up at
the house that marnin', and I were coming to help. A sight of
cherry-trees grow all about the door, and as I came round the corner
there it stood with its hand on the latch, and its eyes very serious."

"What did it look like?"

"It looked like Mr. Cuthbert Martimer, and it stared at I, and then I
saw it were Mr. Melcombe."

"Were you near it?"

"Ay, sir."

"Well, what next?"

"I dropped a curtsey."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Valentine, turning cold. "What, curtsey to a
ghost, a spirit?"

"Ay, I did, and passed on, and that very instant I turned, and it were
gone."

Valentine's voice faltered as he asked the next question. "You were not
frightened?"

"No, sir, because I hadn't got in my head yet that 'twere a sperit. When
I got in, I said, 'I'n seen him,' 'You fool,' says Mary Carfoil, that
was cook then, 'your head,' says she, 'is for ever running on the men
folks. He's a thousand mile off,' says she, 'in the Indies, and the
family heerd on him a week agoo.' 'I did see him,' says I. 'Goo along
about your business,' says she, 'and light the copper. It were Mr.
Cuthbert 'e saw, got up by-times to shoot rooks. Lucky enough,' says
she, 'that Mr. Melcombe be away.'"

"Why was it lucky?"

"Because they'd both set their eyes on the same face--they had. It's
hard to cry shame on the dead, but they had. And _she's_ dead too.
Neither on 'em meant any good to her. They had words about her. She'd
have nought to say to Mr. Cuthbert then."

Valentine groaned.

"No, nor she wouldn't after I'n seen the ghost, nor till every soul
said he was dead and drowned, and the letter come from London town."

"There must have been others beside you," said Valentine, sharply,
"other people passing in and out of the laundry door. Why did no one see
him but you--see it but you?"

"It were not the laundry door, sir, 'twere the door in the garden wall,
close by the grete pear-tree, as it went in at; Madam shut up that door
for ever so many years--'e can't mistake it."

"Ah!"

"That's the place, sir."