When Sunday came again Bob Ellery chanced to overtake Martha as she was returning home from church, a fact which Sam Bundy, who had passed the girl a moment before with an immovable face, carefully noted; and when Bob, with an agreeable smile, inquired if Martha was likely to be walking out that afternoon, he was answered with such flattering civility that he took courage to propose to be her companion. But Martha’s family noticed that she came in from the expedition in a very bad humour. Bob was a thick-headed young man, and he had not much to say for himself; and he had brought his pipe with him and puffed the smoke in Martha’s face and laughed at her for minding it; and, moreover, he had wanted to kiss her on parting, which she had thought very presumptuous on so short an acquaintance—Sam had walked with her for at least three Sundays before he had made any such attempt—altogether she was ruffled. “I reckon ye did like Sam best,” remarked her sister, as Martha tossed her hat on to the bed. The other started and answered angrily: “I may have liked him to begin wi’, but I fair hate him now.” “Well, Bob Ellery bain’t so bad,” returned the sister soothingly. “His nose do seem to turn up a good bit, and he’ve got an awful big head, but I’ve seen many as was worse looking.” “There’s other chaps besides Sam and Bob,” retorted Martha. “Who?” enquired the other eagerly, thinking her sister had made a new conquest. “Oh, I don’t know—there’s lots of ’em about. Do ye mind Granny’s silly old tale about goin’ to the church-porch on Midsummer Eve?” “Of course I do. Are ye thinkin’ o’ tryin’ it?” Martha nodded. “I’d like to find out summat for certain,” she said. “Lard, I should be frightened to death to try it. Ugh! Fancy standin’ there among the graves all alone in the dark a-waitin’ for a sperret! Maybe ye mightn’t like him when he did come.” “That’s just what I be a-thinkin’,” said Martha, with a sigh. “But I’d like to find out—it ’ud be a kind o’ satisfaction to know for sure, and not to keep on wonderin’ if it’s to be this one or that one.” “Well, I wouldn’t do it if I was you,” said the sister. But Martha was obdurate. Shortly after the clock struck eleven on the fateful night she crept softly out of the house, and sped noiselessly through the village, and up the lane until she came to the church. It was a warm, still night, with a large, sultry moon swimming overhead, and outlining with silver the grey walls of the sacred building and the many tombstones which studded the green enclosure round it. Martha stood still, catching her breath, then tremulously unlatched the gate and went up the flagged path. She paused midway, raising her hand to her head:—