They passed on, and saw, a hundred feet beneath them, the valley of the little stream. More ruins, many of them; but one or two cottages still inhabited. The lower cottages lay close to the water, and in four or five places the stream was spanned by a clapper bridge. In one of the gardens ghostly children were playing, and in another ghostly washing flapped in a breeze that had risen with the coolness of evening. Mr. Ingleby pointed out to Edwin his great-grandmother’s home. It was the cottage in the garden of which the children were playing. From the chimney a trail of smoke dwindled up against the grey hill-side. “I should like to see inside it,” said Edwin. “Would you? No . . . I don’t think it would be worth going down into the hollow to see it. You’d only be disappointed. I don’t expect there’d be anything much to see. Besides, we haven’t time. I want to take you to a little farm—it isn’t really big enough to be called a farm—at the top of the lane under Axdown. They call it the Holloway. Why I can’t imagine, for it is the highest point of the whole village. Your aunt tells me that your grandfather’s sister, your own great-aunt Lydia, is still living there, and I think I had better go and see her.” He turned again, and Edwin followed him. It seemed strange to him that his father should not be anxious to look inside the house where his childhood had been spent. A ghost . . . a ghost. . . . They passed the windy farm once more. A man, in muddy gaiters, was driving cows into the yard. He was the first creature—apart from the ghostly children in the valley—that they had seen. A tall man, with a gaunt, grey face, who did not even turn to look at them or give them good-evening, although they must surely have been the only living people that he had seen that day. It was impossible to believe from the sight of its exterior that the farm was now inhabited. “Who do you think he is?” Edwin asked. “I don’t know. I haven’t the least idea. The people at that farm used to be named Ingleby; and he certainly has the figure of your grandfather. . . .” “Won’t you stop and speak to him?” “Why should we?” “But he would be awfully pleased to see you and know who you are. . . .” “I don’t expect he would.” A moment later Mr. Ingleby said, “Now, the ruins of this cottage ought to interest you, Edwin.” “Why? Is it one of ours?”