“Ess,” said the white-bearded Cramphorn, “ghostes of men an’ ghostes of hosses tu. Ban’t many parishes as can shaw ’e such a brave turnout of holy phantoms, I lay. You might have seed that ruin in the fir trees ’pon top of the cliff as you comed down the hill p’raps? Wheer the fishermen’s gardens be. Well, ’twas a famous mansion in the old days, though now sinked to a mere landmark for mackerel boats. But the Stapledons lived theer in times agone, an’ lorded it awver all the land so far as Dartymouth, ’tis thought. Of course they died like theer neighbours, an’ many a brave funeral passed out-along wheer I grow my bit of kale to-day. Yet no account taken till theer comed the terrible business of Lady Emma Stapledon—poor soul. Her was ordered by her cold-hearted faither to marry a Lunnon man for his money—a gay young youth of gert renown, an’ as big a rip as ever you see, an’ a very evil character, but thousands of pounds in the bank to soften people’s minds. Her wouldn’t take him, however, an’ peaked an’ pined, till at last—two nights afore the marriage-day—her went out alone along that dangerous edge of cliff what be named the Devil’s Tight-rope. In charity us’ll say the poor maiden’s foot slipped, though if it did, why for should her funeral walk ever since when January comes round? Anyway it shows her had Christian burial no doubt, an’ the funeral can be seen evermore—hosses an’ men, hearse an’ coffin. Every moony night in January it may be marked stealin’ like a fog awver the tilth by the old road from the ruined gates; an’ to see it only axes a pinch of faith in the beholder. I’ve watched it scores o’ dozens o’ times—all so black as sin an’ silent as the grave. My sweat falled like rain fust time I seed it, but I minded how the Lord looks arter His awn. Of course an honest, church-going man’s out o’ the reach o’ ghostes.” Mr. Cramphorn stopped and buried his beautiful Roman nose in some rum and water. Then Mrs. Pearn, mistress of the “Golden Anchor,” mended the fire, and a man, sitting in the ingle, asked a question. “Where’s Jenifer to? ’Tis late for her to be out alone.” The old woman answered:— “Gone up the hill for green stuff. Her laughs at all you silly men. I told her how ’twas the time for Lady Emma’s death-coach; but her said so long as they didn’t want her to get in an’ sit along wi’ she, her’d not mind no death-coaches, nor ghostes neither.” “’Tis very unseemly for a maid to talk so,” declared the stranger, gravely. “Them as flout spirits often have to pay an ugly reckoning.” Others were also of this mind and Mr. Cramphorn gave instances. “My stars! You’m makin’ me cream with fear, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Pearn, after supping full on their horrid recollections; “best to go up the hill, Jonathan Godbeer, an’ find the wench. ’Tis your work, seeing you’m tokened to her.”