"Last night, from tea-time until half-past nine, I never stirred out of my mother's parlour," rejoined William. "I was at my books as usual. At half-past nine I ran up to say a word to Henry Ashley. You saw me returning." "But I saw thee at the back with my own eyes," persisted the Quaker. "I saw thy cloak. Thee had on that blue cap of thine: it was tied down over thy ears; and the collar of the cloak was turned up, to protect thee, as I surmised, from the cold." "It must have been my ghost," responded William. "_Should_ I be likely to pace up and down a cold field, for pastime, on a January night?" "Will thee oblige me by putting on thy cloak?" was all the answer returned by Samuel Lynn. "What--now?" "Please." William, laughing, went out of the room, and came back in his cloak. It was an old-fashioned cloak--a remarkable cloak--a dark plaid, its collar lined with red. Formerly worn by gentlemen, they had now become nearly obsolete; but William had picked this up for much less than half its value. He did not care much for fashion, and it was warm and comfortable in winter weather. "Perhaps you wish me to put on my cap?" said William, in a serio-comic tone. "Yes; and turn down the ears." He obeyed, very much amused. "Anything more?" asked he. "Walk thyself about an instant." His lips smiling, his eyes dancing, William marched from one side of the room to the other. While this was in process Cyril Dare bustled in, and stood in amazement, staring at William. The Quaker paid no attention to his arrival, except that he took out his watch and glanced at it. He continued to address William. "And thee can assure me to my face, that thee was not pacing the field last night in the moonlight, dressed as now?" "I can, and do," replied William. "Then, William, it is one of two things. My eyes or thy word must be false." "Did you see my face?" asked William. "Not much of that. With the ears down and the collar up, thy face was pretty effectually concealed. There's not another cloak like thine in all Helstonleigh." "You are right there," laughed William; "there's not one half so handsome. Admire the contrast of the purple and green plaid and the scarlet collar." "No, not another like it," emphatically repeated the Quaker. "I tell thee, William Halliburton, in the teeth of thy denial, that I saw thee, or a figure precisely similar to thee, parading the field-path last night, and stealthily watching my windows." "It's a clear case of ghost," returned William, with an amused look at Cyril Dare. "How much longer am I to make a walking Guy of myself, for your pleasure and Cyril's astonishment?" "Thee can take it off," replied the Quaker, his curt tone betraying dissatisfaction. Until that moment he had believed William Halliburton to be the very quintessence of truth. His belief was now shaken.