should be passed over, and this unwelcome business be put upon him. “Ay,” thought he, “they may talk of young legs, but mistress knows very well that none of those burly fellows _dare_ go all the way to the Hard-meadow to-night,--through the dingle; over the brook; and past the hovel where old Chalkings was found dead last August, with his hand still holding fast his tramp-basket, though his clothes were rotten on his back! No! Jack must trudge, though the old gentleman himself were in the way!” This persuasion furnished him at once with a scheme of revenge, and of coming at the tea-cakes. He therefore rose slowly, and with well-feigned reluctance; put on his clouted shoes, which he had put off to indulge his feet with their accustomed portion of liberty and warmth before he went to bed; and folding round him a sack-bag, the common mantle and dread-naught of carters and farmers in wet or cold weather, he went out. Instead of marching off to the Hard-meadow, however, of which he had not the most remote intention, he went leisurely round to the front door, which he knew would be unfastened; for what inhabitants of an old country-house would think of fastening doors till bed-time? He entered quietly; ascended the front stairs; and reaching a large, old oaken chest which stood on the landing-place, all carved and adorned with minster-work, he struck three bold strokes on the lid with a pebble which he had picked up in the yard for the purpose. At the sound, up started every soul in the kitchen. “What is that?” said every one at once in consternation. The mistress ordered the maid to run and see; but the maid declared that she would not go for the world. “Go you, then, Betty cook--go Joe--go Harry!” No, neither Betty, Joe, Harry, nor anybody else would stir a foot. They all stood together aghast, when a strange rumbling and grinding sound assailed their ears. It was Jack rubbing the pebble a few times over the carved lid of the chest. This was too much for endurance. A great fellow in a paroxysm of terror, snatched down the horn from its nail, and blew a tremendous blast. It was not long neither before its effect was seen. The people of Wood-end came running in a wild troop, armed with brooms, pitchforks, spits, scythes, and rusty swords. They were already assured by the dismal blast of the horn that something fearful had occurred, but the sight of the white faces of the family made them grow white too. “What is the matter! What is the matter in heaven’s name?” “O! such sounds, such rumblings, somewhere upstairs!” In the heat of the moment, if heat it could be called, it was resolved to move in a body to the mysterious spot. Swords, scythes, pitchforks fell into due rank; candles were held by trembling hands; and in a truly _fearful_ phalanx they marched across the sitting-room and reached the stair-foot. Here was a sudden pause; for there seemed to be heavy footsteps actually descending. They