On her way she passed and repassed an open cart-shed where Mr Roy, whistling cheerily, was engaged in his favourite pursuit of carpentering. He had cast aside his black coat, and for his better convenience wore a short blue-flannel boating-jacket; about his feet the yellow-white shavings curled in larger and larger heaps every minute, as he bent over his carpenter's bench in the all-absorbing enjoyment of measuring, smoothing, and planing. The shed was also occupied by two goats and a family of cocks and hens, some turkeys were perched on the empty wagon at the farther end, and an inquisitive pig looked in now and then in a friendly manner. These all eyed their human companion thoughtfully from time to time, but without any alarm, for they had now discovered that both he and his various edged tools were perfectly harmless. Up and down went Biddy in the sunshine, keeping up a low murmur of conversation with the baby, casting a glance at her busy master, and catching a scrap now and then of a gossip going on at the kitchen door between Mrs Shivers and Mr Peter Sweet, landlord of the village inn. She did not take much heed of this until suddenly this sentence, uttered in the loud tones of Mr Sweet, sounded clearly in her ear: "And so the Truslow ghost's been, seen again!" Biddy started; she could not help quickening her steps, so that she soon got back again to the kitchen door, where Mr Sweet's broad back was turned towards her. She could not see Mrs Shivers, but she knew it was her voice that said: "Jest as the clock strikes ten--crosses the Kennet at the end of the field." Biddy felt rooted to the spot. She must hear more about it, and she glanced round to see if Mr Roy noticed where she was standing. No. His earnest face and pursed-up mouth looked more engrossed than ever. Neither of the speakers could see her, for between her and them there was a small piece of thick yew hedge. So, secure in her wrong-doing, Biddy lent an attentive ear and forgot her duty, the baby, and everything else. She could hear every word. "It's my belief," said Mrs Shivers, "and it's what I've always held to, that it's one of them old Truslows, as was a wicked lot, come out of his grave to see the place where he committed a crime. It's likely he murdered some one in this very house, and that makes him oneasy. Some gambling quarrel, I make no doubt it was, for they say you may see a party of men playing cards in the drawing-room here any night after twelve. It's only naturable to think it." "Well," said Mr Peter Sweet reflectively, "I don't say as you mayn't be right, for it do seem to come straight out of the churchyard as it were. But what bothers me is, why it should go on all-fours. I don't suppose them old Truslows were in the 'abit of doing that in their lifetime. And then there's summat white on its head that flaps like a couple o' large ears. What would that be?"