"I had just got past it, sir, when I saw a figure crossing that bare corner from the other trees. A man's shape, it looked like. Tall and shadowy it was, wearing what looked like a long garment, or a woman's riding-habit, trailing nearly on the ground. The very moment my eyes fell upon it, I felt that it was something strange, and when the figure passed me, turning its face right upon me--I _saw_ the face, sir." Old Matthew's manner was so peculiar, his pause so impressive, that Mr. Bourne could only gaze at him, and wait in wonder for what was coming. "Sir, it was the face of one who has been dead these two years past--Mr. Frederick Massingbird." If the rector had gazed at old Matthew before, he could only stare now. That the calm, sensible old man should fall into so extraordinary a delusion, was incomprehensible. He might have believed it of Deerham in general, but not of Matthew Frost. "Matthew, you must have been deceived," was his quiet answer. "No, sir. There never was another face like Mr. Frederick Massingbird's. Other features may have been made like his--it's not for me to say they have not--but whose else would have the black mark upon it? The moonlight was full upon it, and I could see even the little lines shooting out from the cheek, so bright was the night. The face was turned right upon me as it passed, and I am as clear about its being his as I am that it was me looking at it." "But you know it is a thing absolutely impossible," urged Mr. Bourne. "I think you must have dreamt this, Matthew." Old Matthew shook his head. "I wouldn't have told you a dream, sir. It turned me all in a maze. I never felt the fatigue of a step all the way home after it. When I got in, I couldn't eat my supper; I couldn't go to bed. I sat up thinking, and the wife, she came in and asked what ailed me that I didn't go to rest. I had got no sleep in my eyes, I told her, which was true; for, when I did get to bed, it was hours afore I could close 'em." "But, Matthew, I tell you that it is impossible. You must have been mistaken." "Sir, until last night, had anybody told me such a thing, I should have said it was impossible. You know, sir, I have never been given to such fancies. There's no doubt, sir; there's _no doubt_ that it was the spirit of Mr. Frederick Massingbird." Matthew's clear, intelligent eye was fixed firmly on Mr. Bourne's--his face, as usual, bending a little forward. Mr. Bourne had never believed in "spirits"; clergymen, as a rule, do not. A half smile crossed his lips. "Were you frightened?" he asked.