On the western end of Exmoor there is an old inn, the _Acland Arms_, which supernatural visitants have rendered uninhabitable. It lies deserted and melancholy, with its ruined porch and the broken walls of its weed-choked garden. The wraith of Farmer Mole haunts its precincts. He was returning from South Molton market one dark night on a horse laden with sacks of lime. Many years afterwards horse and man were dug out of the bog close by, into which they must have wandered in the mist and become engulfed. For the tale of the “Hand of Glory” we are indebted to Mrs. Katherine Macquoid, and will let it be told in her own words, with only a few abbreviations.[16] The _Spital Inn_ on Stanmore in Yorkshire, was, in the year 1797, a long narrow building kept by one George Alderson. Its lower storey was used as stabling, for the stage-coaches changed horses at the inn; the upper part was reached by a flight of ten or twelve steps leading up from the road to a stout oaken door, and the windows, deeply recessed in the thick walls, were strongly barred with iron. One stormy October night, while the rain swept pitilessly against the windows and the fierce gusts made the casements rattle, George Alderson and his son sat over the crackling log fire and talked of their gains at Broughton Hill Fair; these gains, representing a large sum of money, being safely stowed away in a cupboard in the landlord’s bedroom. A knock at the door interrupted them. “Open t’ door, lass,” said Alderson. “Ah wadna keep a dog out sik a neet as this.” “Eh! best slacken t’ chain, lass,” said the more cautious landlady. The girl went to the door, but when she saw that the visitor was an old woman, she bade her come in. There entered a bent figure dressed in a long cloak and hood; this last was drawn over her face and, as she walked feebly to the armchair which Alderson pushed forward, the rain streamed from her clothing and made a pool on the oaken floor. She shivered violently but refused to take off her cloak and have it dried. She also refused the offer of food or a bed. She said she was on her way to the south, and must start as soon as there was daylight. All she needed was a rest beside the fire. The innkeeper and his wife were well used to wayfarers; they soon said “Good-night,” and went to bed; so did their son. Bella, the maid, was left alone with the shivering old woman, who gave but surly answers to her advances, and the girl fancied that the voice, though low, was not a woman’s. Presently the wayfarer stretched out her feet to warm them, and Bella’s quick eyes saw under the hem of the skirt that the stranger wore horseman’s gaiters. The girl felt uneasy, and instead of going to bed, she resolved to stay up and watch. [Illustration: The “Greyhound” Inn, Stroud]