Mr Clifton, a lively and energetic young man, full of plans and schemes, for which he found Waynflete hardly ripe, came over as invited, and soon suggested starting a subscription for the repairs of the church. "The curious old Norman architecture makes it a county concern," he said, "and Mrs Waynflete's memory is so much respected that I am sure people would like to show it by helping us." "Yes," said Guy, "I expect Mrs John Palmer, our connection, who wishes to take the house for the summer, would give us something." Mr Clifton looked much cheered by the notion of a tenant in the shape of a well-to-do lady. "We might get a good deal done by Michaelmas," he said. "I find the church is dedicated to Saint Michael." "Is that so?" said Guy, as if struck. "Yes; I've been looking up the records--and--I believe it's illegal; but I found some such curious matters in the old registers, that, as they concern your family, I ventured to bring them with me." He produced two worm-eaten old volumes, in which he had placed various marks. It appeared that the last Waynflete parson had lived to extreme old age. His death in 1810 was set down, and had been followed by three long incumbencies of men of the illiterate and not over-reputable class, too common formerly in the north of England. "The last was more decent," said the vicar; "but he did nothing. The roots of evil are old and deep. Now, here's a queer thing, noted comparatively recently by the vicar before last, in 1864. "Buried _John Outhwaite_. Stated on his death-bed that, when a lad, he saw the ghost of one of the old Waynfletes, on Flete Bridge, on an autumn night. Probably a trick played on him by a comrade." "Is there any more?" said Guy, eagerly. "The ghost of `t' owd Guy' is a tradition in the place," said the vicar; "but there seems nothing recent at all authenticated." Next he showed them the entry of the death of the last squire, and of the luckless Guy, with _Died by His own Hand_, and _Died in Delirium_, written in crabbed, ill-spelt characters by the parson-brother, and then-- "It is not to be credited that my Unlucky Nephew saw His Ancestor's Spirit. That is the same Idle Tale as was told by Peter Outhwaite when he came home from Rilston Market, and drowned his horse in the Flete. Albeit, there is Waynflete blood in the Outhwaites, for my Grandfather and his brother were Wild Youths. We be more Prudent now." "Ha!" said Guy, drawing a long breath. "I could not understand how these Outhwaites could see him. That soft lad is an Outhwaite, isn't he? Is he the last of them?" "Yes, except his old mother. She is a character, and very proud of her family. Her contempt for me is considerable. But poor Jem is an institution, and believes himself a pillar of the church. He is a good fellow in his way."