The Ancient, on the contrary, seemed to have set me in his "black books;" he would no longer sit with me over a tankard outside "The Bull" of an evening, nor look in at the forge, with a cheery nod and word, as had been his wont; he seemed rather to shun my society, and, if I did meet him by chance, would treat me with the frigid dignity of a Grand Seigneur. Indeed, the haughtiest duke that ever rolled in his chariot is far less proud than your plain English rustic, and far less difficult to propitiate. Thus, though I had once had the temerity to question him as to his altered treatment of me, the once had sufficed. He was sitting, I remember, on the bench before "The Bull," his hands crossed upon his stick and his chin resting upon his hands. "Peter," he had answered, regarding me with a terrible eye, "Peter, I be disapp'inted in ye!" Hereupon rising, he had rapped loudly upon his snuff-box and hobbled stiffly away. And that ended the matter, so far as I was concerned, though, to be sure, Simon had interceded in my behalf with no better success; and thus I was still left wondering. One day, however, as George and I were hard at work, I became aware of some one standing in the doorway behind me, but at first paid no heed (for it was become the custom for folk to come to look at the man who lived all alone in the haunted cottage), so, as I say, I worked on heedlessly. "Peter?" said a voice at last and, turning, I beheld the old man leaning upon his stick and regarding me beneath his lowered brows. "Why, Ancient!" I exclaimed, and held out my hand. But he checked me with a gesture, and fumblingly took out his snuff-box. "Peter," said he, fixing me with his eye, "were it a Scotchman or were it not?" "Why, to be sure it was," I answered, "a Scotch piper, as I told you, and—" "Peter," said the Ancient, tapping his snuff-box, "it weren't no ghost, then—ay or no." "No," said I, "nothing but a—" "Peter!" said the Ancient, nodding solemnly, "Peter, I 'ates ye!" and, turning sharp about, he tottered away upon his stick. "So—that's it!" said I, staring after the old man's retreating figure. "Why, ye see," said George, somewhat diffidently, "ye see, Peter, Gaffer be so old!—and all 'is friends be dead, and he've come to look on this 'ere ghost as belongin' to 'im a'most. Loves to sit an' tell about it, 'e do; it be all 'e've got left to live for, as ye might say, and now you've been and gone and said as theer bean't no ghost arter all, d'ye see?" "Ah, yes, I see," I nodded, "I see. But you don't still, believe in this ghost, do you, George?" "N-o-o-o—not 'xactly," answered George, hesitating upon the word, "can't say as I believe 'xactly, and yet, Lord! 'ow should I know?" "Then you do still believe in the ghost?" "Why, y' see, Peter, we do know as a man 'ung 'isself theer, 'cause Gaffer found un—likewise I've heerd it scream—but as for believin' in it, since you say contrarywise—why, 'ow should I know?"