"To tell ye t' truth, sir, I doan't like to speak on it. They war i' drink one neet--summat about a woman, for young 'uns will be youngs 'uns th' world ower----" "You're right there," interrupted the stranger, and shut his lips down on his tell-tale mouth. His companion glanced shrewdly at him, but made no comment. "As I war saying, they war i' their cups, an' they fell a-fighting. Th' younger he shied a brandy-bottle, an' caught t' other fair on th' forehead, an' killed him deäd as a door-nail. Then he hanged hisseln to one o' th' parlour rafters, an' that war th' end of th' owd family. Ay, sad, sad, for sure; but they war bonny lads at a bit o' poaching." "And their ghosts haunt the old Hall?" "So fowks say, an' I've no reason to doubt it. Dirt cheap th' owd place is going; for them two brothers, being Ling Crag born, doan't part in a hurry, an' they mak it fair too hot to bide in for them as comes to live there." "They won't trouble me, at any rate. It will be a little excitement. What sort of ghosts are they?" The landlord frowned on the other's levity, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "They do say--and what am I to deny it?--that th' ghost o' th' brandy-bottle is th' hardest to bear; it shooits up i' th' air, an' dithers around, an' then strikes t' other ghost so as to bring a bloody stream from his forehead.--But idle chaps will allus be telling idle tales," he finished, replenishing his pipe. The discrepancy between the opening of his speech and the finish was easily accounted for. Pride in the village ghost had led him on to wax eloquent in description, but monetary interest induced him not to put hindrances in the way of a good bargain. Doubtless there would be pickings for himself if his guest took Wynyates Hall. A long silence followed. "Ye come fro' th' low country, I'm thinking?" said Boniface at length. "From--from the low country?" repeated the stranger. "Ay--from t' South, as some fowk call it." "Oh, yes, I'm from the South." "I thowt as mich fro' your spache. Happen, then, ye'll know Miller Rotherson, what's ta'en th' mill i' Hazel Dene?" "No, I don't know him." The stranger was trying to realize a new point of view. Evidently the people of Ling Crag regarded themselves as one village, and the rest of England as another. They expected all South-country people to know each other, just as the landlord here knew Betty Binns, or Gabriel Hirst, or Dick the Cobbler. Such isolation took the stranger's breath away. Another silence. "I mind me that th' agent what looks after Wynyates Hall--an' a sight more property, too--comes here to-morrow to collect th' rents," said the landlord. "Him an' ye might come to an agreement." "I think we might. What time is he due?" "Fro' nooin onwards to six o' th' clock." "Very well. Call me at nine, will you, and give me bacon and eggs for breakfast. It's high time we turned in."