These neat new buildings to your right, are mills erected by Mr Marshall, for sawing timber and for cutting and polishing the blue flag-stones worked from a quarry at the back of the Guards hill. The land round the saw-mills is divided into garden allotments, let at easy rents to the neighbouring cottagers, and the industrious attention paid by the allottees to the delving, clearing, and cropping of their several parcels, is a pleasing proof of the high estimation in which they hold the privileges thus accorded them. I should have mentioned that Lady le Fleming has devoted a field adjoining the church-yard to the same excellent purpose. Move on, and, as you pass the Saw-mills, you enter the vale of Yewdale, on which, and on its charms, seeing that I have long ago exhausted my vocabulary of praise, it were but repeating a thrice-told tale to say much more respecting it. But, that you may not ride up Yewdale “in solemn silence,” as, according to the newspapers, they drink to dead men at public dinners, “I'll tell you a tale without any flam” in connection with Yewdale and Cauldron Dub. It is a story possessing a fair allowance of tragic incident, and in some hands might be worked up into something worth while; but I am a wretched story-teller, and regret exceedingly that I cannot recapitulate its leading particulars in the racy and terse, aye, and poetical, albeit broadly provincial phraseology of my rustic informant. In good time here we are at the very fittest spot for the commencement of my story, about a quarter of a mile above the Saw-mills, where, by craning over the hedge to your right, you may perceive, near to the verge of the precipitous bank of Yewdale Beck, and a few yards from the road side, a long narrow mound which seems to be formed of solid stone covered with moss, but which a nearer inspection would shew to be composed of several blocks fitted so closely together as to prove the mound to have had an artificial, and not a natural origin. You observe it is somewhere between three and four yards long. That singular accumulation of lichen-clad rock has been known for centuries amongst the natives of Yewdale and the adjacent valleys, by the romance-suggesting designation of “Girt Will’s Grave.” How it came by that name, and how Cauldron Dub and Yewdale Bridge came to be haunted, my task is now to tell. [Sidenote: A GIGANTIC SQUATTER.]