It was a cold, raw, autumnal day. The roads, as Herbert had said, were horrible; and as we ploughed through the thick mud, which, in some places was up to the wheel hubs, I took, I believe, my first lesson in genuine home-sickness, which, in my opinion, is about as hard to bear as love-sickness! Indeed, I think they _feel_ much alike—the latter being, perhaps, a very little the worse of the two! It was in vain that Herbert pointed out to me the many handsome farmhouses which we passed, expatiating upon the richness and fertility of the soil, and telling me how greatly superior in everything New York was to New England. I scarcely heard him, for even though in all Massachusetts there was naught save the rocky hills, and sterile plains, it was _my home_, and from that spot the heart cannot easily be weaned. Rockland is a large, wealthy town, embracing within its limits more than the prescribed rule of six miles square, while scattered through it are two or three little villages, each bearing a distinct name, by which they are known abroad. First, there was Laurel Hill, famed as the residence of certain families who were styled _proud_ and _aristocratic_—to say nothing of their being _Episcopalians_, which last fact was by some regarded as the main cause of their haughtiness. Next came the “Centre,” with its group of red houses, and its single spire, so tall, so straight, and so square, that it scarce needed the lettering over the entrance to tell to the stranger that _Presbyterians_ worshiped there. Lastly came Flattville, by far the largest village in Rockland, and the home of all the _isms_ in the known world. To the south of Flattville is a small lake, renowned for its quiet beauty, and the picturesque wildness of its shores. Bounded on three sides by high hills, its waters sleep calmly in the sunlight of summer, or dash angrily upon the sandy beach, when moved by the chill breath of winter. On the brow of one of the high hills which overlook the Honeoye, and so near to it that the sweep of the waves can be distinctly heard in a clear, still night, stood the home of my sister. It was a huge, wooden building, containing rooms innumerable, while even the basement was large enough to accommodate one or more families. Being the first frame house erected in the town, it was of course looked upon with considerable interest, and as if to make it still more notorious, it bore the reputation of being _haunted_, and by some of the neighbors was called the “Haunted Castle.”