"Many claimed that they had seen him, and the maids and wives got quite frightened. But my sister, a girl of sixteen, wishing to show that she was less foolish than the others, said: 'I don't believe a word of that; he who is once dead never comes back!' She said this, unfortunately, without a conviction of its truth, for she had been frightened many times herself. Thereupon one of the young people said: 'If you believe that, then you would have no reason to be afraid of him; his grave is only two paces from that of Kate's, who recently died. If you dare, go to the church-yard, pick a flower from Kate's grave, and bring it to us; then we will begin to believe that you are not afraid of the store-keeper's ghost. My sister was ashamed of being laughed at by the others, therefore she said: 'Oh, that's easy enough; what kind of a flower do you want?' 'The only white rose in the village blooms there; so bring us a bunch of those,' answered one of her friends. She got up and went out, and all the men praised her spirit; but the women shook their heads and said: 'If it only ends well!' My sister passed on to the cemetery; the moon shone brightly, but she began to tremble as the clock struck twelve while she was opening the church-yard gate. She clambered over many mounds which she knew, and her heart beat faster and faster the nearer she came to Kate's white rose bush and the ghostly store-keeper's grave. At last she reached it, and kneeled down, trembling with fear, to pluck some roses. Just then she thought she heard a noise close by; she turned around, and saw the earth flying out of a grave two steps away from her, and a form straightened itself up slowly in the grave. It was that of an old, pale-faced man, with a white night-cap on his head. My sister was greatly frightened; she turned to look once more to make sure that she had seen aright; but when the man in the grave began to say, in a nasal tone: 'Good evening, Miss! where do you come from so late?' she was seized with a deathly terror, and collecting all her strength, she sprang over the graves, ran to the house she had just left, and breathlessly related what she had seen; then she became so weak that she had to be carried home. Of what use was it that we found out the next day that it was the grave-digger who was making a grave there, and who had spoken to my poor sister? Before she could comprehend this she had fallen into a high fever, of which she died three days afterwards. She had gathered the roses for her own burial wreath." A tear dropped from the wagoner's eye as he concluded, while the others regarded him with sympathy. "So the poor child died in this implicit faith," said the young goldsmith. "I recollect a legend in that connection, which I should like to tell you, and that unfortunately is connected with such a tragedy." THE CAVE OF STEENFOLL. A SCOTTISH LEGEND.