Twenty years have passed since you last saw Mrs. Jolliffe’s tall slim figure. She is now past seventy, and can’t have many mile-stones more to count on the journey that will bring her to her long home. The hair has grown white as snow, that is parted under her cap, over her shrewd, but kindly face. But her figure is still straight, and her step light and active.
 She has taken of late years to the care of adult invalids, having surrendered to younger hands the little people who inhabit cradles, and crawl on all-fours. Those who remember that good-natured face among the earliest that emerge from the darkness of non-entity, and who owe to their first lessons in the accomplishment of walking, and a delighted appreciation of their first babblings and earliest teeth, have “spired up” into tall lads and lasses, now. Some of them shew streaks of white by this time, in brown locks, “the bonny gouden” hair, that she was so proud to brush and shew to admiring mothers, who are seen no more on the green of Golden Friars, and whose names are traced now on the flat grey stones in the church-yard.
 So the time is ripening some, and searing others; and the saddening and tender sunset hour has come; and it is evening with the kind old north-country dame, who nursed pretty Laura Mildmay, who now stepping into the room, smiles so gladly, and throws her arms round the old woman’s neck, and kisses her twice.
 “Now, this is so lucky!” said Mrs. Jenner, “you have just come in time to hear a story.”
 “Really! That’s delightful.”
 “Na, na, od wite it! no story, ouer true for that, I sid it a wi my aan eyen. But the barn here, would not like, at these hours, just goin’ to her bed, to hear tell of freets and boggarts.”
 “Ghosts? The very thing of all others I should most likely to hear of.”
 “Well, dear,” said Mrs. Jenner, “if you are not afraid, sit ye down here, with us.”
 “She was just going to tell me all about her first engagement to attend a dying old woman,” says Mrs. Jenner, “and of the ghost she saw there. Now, Mrs. Jolliffe, make your tea first, and then begin.”
 The good woman obeyed, and having prepared a cup of that companionable nectar, she sipped a little, drew her brows slightly together to collect her thoughts, and then looked up with a wondrous solemn face to begin.
 Good Mrs. Jenner, and the pretty girl, each gazed with eyes of solemn expectation in the face of the old woman, who seemed to gather awe from the recollections she was summoning.
 The old room was a good scene for such a narrative, with the oak-wainscoting, quaint, and clumsy furniture, the heavy beams that crossed its ceiling, and the tall four-post bed, with dark curtains, within which you might imagine what shadows you please.
 Mrs. Jolliffe cleared her voice, rolled her eyes slowly round, and began her tale in these words:-

MADAM CROWL’S GHOST
 I’m an ald woman now, and I was but thirteen, my last birthday, the night I came to Applewale House. My aunt was the housekeeper there, and a sort o’ one-horse carriage was down at Lexhoe waitin’ to take me and my box up to Applewale.
 I was a bit frightened by the time I got to Lexhoe, and when I saw the carriage and horse, I wished myself back again with my mother at Hazelden. I was crying when I got into the “shay’ - that’s what we used to call it - and old John Mulbery that drove it, and was a good-natured fellow, bought me a handful of apples at the Golden Lion to cheer me up a bit; and he told me that there was a currant-cake, and tea, and pork-chops, waiting for me, all hot, in my aunt’s room at the great house. It was a fine moonlight night, and I eat the apples, lookin’ out o’ the shay winda.
 It’s a shame for gentlemen to frighten a poor foolish child like I was. I sometimes think it might be tricks. There was two on ’em on the tap o’ the coach beside me. And they began to question me after nightfall, when the moon rose, where I was going to. Well, I told them it was to wait on Dame Arabella Crowl, of Applewale House, near by Lexhoe.
 “Ho, then,” says one of them, “you’ll not be long there!”
 And I looked at him as much as to say “Why not?” for I had spoken out when I told them where I was goin’, as if ’twas something clever I hed to say.
 “Because,” says he, “and don’t you for your life tell no one, only watch her and see - she’s possessed by the devil, and more an half a ghost. Have you got a Bible?”
 “Yes, sir,” says I. For my mother put my little Bible in my box, and I knew it was there: and by the same token, though the print’s too small for my ald eyes, I have it in my press to this hour.
 As I looked up at him saying “Yes, sir,” I thought I saw him winkin’ at his friend; but I could not be sure.
 “Well,” says he, “be sure you put it under your bolster every night, it will keep the ald girl’s claws aff ye.”
 And I got such a fright when he said that, you wouldn’t fancy! And I’d a liked to ask him a lot about the ald lady, but I was too shy, and he and his friend began talkin’ together about their own consarns, and dowly enough I got down, as I told ye, at Lexhoe. My heart sank as I drove into the dark avenue. The trees stand very thick and big, as ald as the ald house almost, and four people, with their arms out and finger-tips touchin’, barely girds round some of them.
 Well my neck was stretched out o’ the winda, looking for the first view o’ the great house; and all at once we pulled up in front of it.
 A great white-and-black house it is, wi’ great black beams across and right up it, and gables lookin’ out, as white as a sheet, to the moon, and the shadows o’ the trees, two or three up and down in front, you could count the leaves on them, and all the little diamond-shaped winda-panes, glimmering on the great hall winda, and great shutters, in the old fashion, hinged on the wall outside, boulted across all the rest o’ the windas in front, for there was but three or four servants, and the old lady in the house, and most o’ t’ rooms was locked up.
 My heart was in my mouth when I sid the journey was over, and this the great house afoore me, and I sa near my aunt that I never sid till noo, and Dame Crowl, that I was come to wait upon, and was afeard on already.
 My aunt kissed me in the hall, and brought me to her room. She was tall and thin, wi’ a pale face and black eyes, and long thin hands wi’ black mittins on. She was past fifty, and her word was short; but her word was law. I hev no complaints to make of her; but she was a hard woman, and I think she would hev bin kinder to me if I had bin her sister’s child in place of her brother’s. But all that’s o’ no consequence noo.
 The squire - his name was Mr. Chevenix Crowl, he was Dame Crowl’s grandson - came down there, by way of seeing that the old lady was well treated, about twice or thrice in the year. I sid him but twice all the time I was at Applewale House.
 I can’t say but she was well taken care of, notwithstanding; but that was because my aunt and Meg Wyvern, that was her maid, had a conscience, and did their duty by her.
 Mrs. Wyvern - Meg Wyvern my aunt called her to herself, and Mrs. Wyvern to me - was a fat, jolly lass of fifty, a good height and a good breadth, always good-humoured and walked slow. She had fine wages, but she was a bit stingy, and kept all her fine clothes under lock and key, and wore, mostly, a twilled chocolate cotton, wi’ red, and yellow, and green sprigs and balls on it, and it lasted wonderful.
 She never gave me nout, not the vally o’ a brass thimble, all the time I was there; but she was good-humoured, and always laughin’, and she talked no end o’ proas over her tea; and, seeing me sa sackless and dowly, she roused me up wi’ her laughin’ and stories; and I think I liked her better than my aunt - children is so taken wi’ a bit o’ fun or a story - though my aunt was very good to me, but a hard woman about some things, and silent always.
 My aunt took me into her bed-chamber, that I might rest myself a bit while she was settin’ the tea in her room. But first, she patted me on the shouther, and said I was a tall lass o’ my years, and had spired up well, and asked me if I could do plain work and stitchin’; and she looked in my face, and said I was like my father, her brother, that was dead and gone, and she hoped I was a better Christian, and wad na du a’ that lids (would not do anything of that sort).
 It was a hard sayin’ the first time I set foot in her room, I thought.
 When I went into the next room, the housekeeper’s room - very comfortable, yak (oak) all round - there was a fine fire blazin’ away, wi’ coal, and peat, and wood, all in a low together, and tea on the table, and hot cake, and smokin’ meat; and there was Mrs. Wyvern, fat, jolly, and talkin’ away, more in an hour than my aunt would in a year.
 While I was still at my tea my aunt went up-stairs to see Madam Crowl.
 “She’s agone up to see that old Judith Squailes is awake,” says Mrs. Wyvern. “Judith sits with Madam Crowl when me and Mrs. Shutters’ - that was my aunt’s name - “is away. She’s a troublesome old lady. Ye’ll hev to be sharp wi’ her, or she’ll be into the fire, or out o’ t’ winda. She goes on wires, she does, old though she be.”
 “How old, ma’am?” says I.
 “Ninety-three her last birthday, and that’s eight months gone,” says she; and she laughed. “And don’t be askin’ questions about her before your aunt - mind, I tell ye; just take her as you find her, and that’s all.”
 “And what’s to be my business about her, please, ma’am?” says I.
 “About the old lady? Well,” says she, “your aunt, Mrs. Shutters, will tell you that; but I suppose you’ll hev to sit in the room with your work, and see she’s at no mischief, and let her amuse herself with her things on the table, and get her her food or drink as she calls for it, and keep her out o’ mischief, and ring the bell hard if she’s troublesome.”
 “Is she deaf, ma’am?”
 “No, nor blind,” says she; “as sharp as a needle, but she’s gone quite aupy, and can’t remember nout rightly; and Jack the Giant Killer, or Goody Twoshoes will please her as well as the king’s court, or the affairs of the nation.”
 “And what did the little girl go away for, ma’am, that went on Friday last? My aunt wrote to my mother she was to go.”
 “Yes; she’s gone.”
 “What for?” says I again.
 “She didn’t answer Mrs. Shutters, I do suppose,” says she. “I don’t know. Don’t be talkin’; your aunt can’t abide a talkin’ child.”
 “And please, ma’am, is the old lady well in health?” says I.
 “It ain’t no harm to ask that,” says she. “She’s torflin a bit lately, but better this week past, and I dare say she’ll last out her hundred years yet. Hish! Here’s your aunt coming down the passage.”
 In comes my aunt, and begins talkin’ to Mrs. Wyvern, and I, beginnin’ to feel more comfortable and at home like, was walkin’ about the room lookin’ at this thing and at that. There was pretty old china things on the cupboard, and pictures again the wall; and there was a door open in the wainscot, and I sees a queer old leathern jacket, wi’ straps and buckles to it, and sleeves as long as the bed-post hangin’ up inside.
 “What’s that you’re at, child?” says my aunt, sharp enough, turning about when I thought she least minded. “What’s that in your hand?”
 “This, ma’am?” says I, turning about with the leathern jacket. “I don’t know what it is, ma’am.”
 Pale as she was, the red came up in her cheeks, and her eyes flashed wi’ anger, and I think only she had half a dozen steps to take, between her and me, she’d a gev me a sizzup. But she did gie me a shake by the shouther, and she plucked the thing out o’ my hand, and says she, “While ever you stay here, don’t ye meddle wi’ nout that don’t belong to ye’, and she hung it up on the pin that was there, and shut the door wi’ a bang and locked it fast.
 Mrs. Wyvern was liftin’ up her hands and laughin’ all this time, quietly, in her chair, rolling herself a bit in it, as she used when she was kinkin’.
 The tears was in my eyes, and she winked at my aunt, and says she, dryin’ her own eyes that was wet wi’ the laughin’, “Tut, the child meant no harm - come here to me, child. It’s only a pair o’ crutches for lame ducks, and ask us no questions mind, and we’ll tell ye no lies; and come here and sit down, and drink a mug o’ beer before ye go to your bed.”
 My room, mind ye, was upstairs, next to the old lady’s, and Mrs. Wyvern’s bed was near hers in her room, and I was to be ready at call, if need should be.
 The old lady was in one of her tantrums that night and part of the day before. She used to take fits o’ the sulks. Sometimes she would not let them dress her, and at other times she would not let them take her clothes off. She was a great beauty, they said, in her day. But there was no one about Applewale that remembered her in her prime. And she was dreadful fond o’ dress, and had thick silks, and stiff satins, and velvets, and laces, and all sorts, enough to set up seven shops at the least. All her dresses was old-fashioned and queer, but worth a fortune.
 Well, I went to my bed. I lay for a while awake; for a’ things was new to me; and I think the tea was in my nerves, too, for I wasn’t used to it, except now and then on a holiday, or the like. And I heard Mrs. Wyvern talkin’, and I listened with my hand to my ear; but I could not hear Mrs. Crowl, and I don’t think she said a word.
 There was great care took of her. The people at Applewale knew that when she died they would every one get the sack; and their situations was well paid and easy.
 The doctor came twice a week to see the old lady, and you may be sure they all did as he bid them. One thing was the same every time; they were never to cross or frump her, any way, but to humour and please her in everything.
 So she lay in her clothes all that night, and next day, not a word she said, and I was at my needlework all that day, in my own room, except when I went down to my dinner.
 I would a liked to see the ald lady, and even to hear her speak. But she might as well a’ bin in Lunnon a’ the time for me.
 When I had my dinner my aunt sent me out for a walk for an hour. I was glad when I came back, the trees was so big, and the place so dark and lonesome, and ’twas a cloudy day, and I cried a deal, thinkin’ of home, while I was walkin’ alone there. That evening, the candles bein’ alight, I was sittin’ in my room, and the door was open into Madam Crowl’s chamber, where my aunt was. It was, then, for the first time I heard what I suppose was the ald lady talking.
 It was a queer noise like, I couldn’t well say which, a bird, or a beast, only it had a bleatin’ sound in it, and was very small.
 I pricked my ears to hear all I could. But I could not make out one word she said. And my aunt answered:
 “The evil one can’t hurt no one, ma’am, bout the Lord permits.”
 Then the same queer voice from the bed says something more that I couldn’t make head nor tail on.
 And my aunt med answer again: “Let them pull faces, ma’am, and say what they will; if the Lord be for us, who can be against us?”
 I kept listenin’ with my ear turned to the door, holdin’ my breath, but not another word or sound came in from the room. In about twenty minutes, as I was sittin’ by the table, lookin’ at the pictures in the old Aesop’s Fables, I was aware o’ something moving at the door, and lookin’ up I sid my aunt’s face lookin’ in at the door, and her hand raised.
 “Hish!” says she, very soft, and comes over to me on tiptoe, and she says in a whisper: “Thank God, she’s asleep at last, and don’t ye make no noise till I come back, for I’m goin’ down to take my cup o’ tea, and I’ll be back i’ noo - me and Mrs. Wyvern, and she’ll be sleepin’ in the room, and you can run down when we come up, and Judith will gie ye yaur supper in my room.”
 And with that she goes.
 I kep’ looking at the picture-book, as before, listenin’ every noo and then, but there was no sound, not a breath, that I could hear; an’ I began whisperin’ to the pictures and talkin’ to myself to keep my heart up, for I was growin’ feared in that big room.
 And at last up I got, and began walkin’ about the room, lookin’ at this and peepin’ at that, to amuse my mind, ye’ll understand. And at last what sud I do but peeps into Madam Crowl’s bedchamber.
 A grand chamber it was, wi’ a great four-poster, wi’ flowered silk curtains as tall as the ceilin’, and foldin’ down on the floor, and drawn close all round. There was a lookin’-glass, the biggest I ever sid before, and the room was a blaze o’ light. I counted twenty-two wax candles, all alight. Such was her fancy, and no one dared say her nay.
 I listened at the door, and gaped and wondered all round. When I heard there was not a breath, and did not see so much as a stir in the curtains, I took heart, and walked into the room on tiptoe, and looked round again. Then I takes a keek at myself in the big glass; and at last it came in my head, “Why couldn’t I ha’ a keek at the ald lady herself in the bed?
 Ye’d think me a fule if ye knew half how I longed to see Dame Crowl, and I thought to myself if I didn’t peep now I might wait many a day before I got so gude a chance again.
 Well, my dear, I came to the side o’ the bed, the curtains bein’ close, and my heart a’most failed me. But I took courage, and I slips my finger in between the thick curtains, and then my hand. So I waits a bit, but all was still as death. So, softly, softly I draws the curtain, and there, sure enough, I sid before me, stretched out like the painted lady on the tomb-stean in Lexhoe Church, the famous Dame Crowl, of Applewale House. There she was, dressed out. You never sid the like in they days. Satin and silk, and scarlet and green, and gold and pint lace; by Jen! ’twas a sight! A big powdered wig, half as high as herself, was a-top o’ her head, and, wow! - was ever such wrinkles? - and her old baggy throat all powdered white, and her cheeks rouged, and mouse-skin eyebrows, that Mrs. Wyvern used to stick on, and there she lay proud and stark, wi’ a pair o’ clocked silk hose on, and heels to her shoon as tall as nine-pins. Lawk! But her nose was crooked and thin, and half the whites o’ her eyes was open. She used to stand, dressed as she was, gigglin’ and dribblin’ before the lookin’-glass, wi’ a fan in her hand and a big nosegay in her bodice. Her wrinkled little hands was stretched down by her sides, and such long nails, all cut into points, I never sid in my days. Could it even a bin the fashion for grit fowk to wear their fingernails so?
 Well, I think ye’d a-bin frightened yourself if ye’d a sid such a sight. I couldn’t let go the curtain, nor move an inch, nor take my eyes off her; my very heart stood still. And in an instant she opens her eyes and up she sits, and spins herself round, and down wi’ her, wi’ a clack on her two tall heels on the floor, facin’ me, ogglin’ in my face wi’ her two great glassy eyes, and a wicked simper wi’ her wrinkled lips, and lang fause teeth.
 Well, a corpse is a natural thing; but this was the dreadfullest sight I ever sid. She had her fingers straight out pointin’ at me, and her back was crooked, round again wi’ age. Says she:
 “Ye little limb! what for did ye say I killed the boy? I’ll tickle ye till ye’re stiff!”
 If I’d a thought an instant, I’d a turned about and run. But I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I backed from her as soon as I could; and she came clatterin’ after like a thing on wires, with her fingers pointing to my throat, and she makin’ all the time a sound with her tongue like zizz-zizz-zizz.
 I kept backin’ and backin’ as quick as I could, and her fingers was only a few inches away from my throat, and I felt I’d lose my wits if she touched me.
 I went back this way, right into the corner, and I gev a yellock, ye’d think saul and body was partin’, and that minute my aunt, from the door, calls out wi’ a blare, and the ald lady turns round on her, and I turns about, and ran through my room, and down the stairs, as hard as my legs could carry me.
 I cried hearty, I can tell you, when I got down to the housekeeper’s room. Mrs. Wyvern laughed a deal when I told her what happened. But she changed her key when she heard the ald lady’s words.
 “Say them again,” says she.
 So I told her.
 “Ye little limb! What for did ye say I killed the boy? I’ll tickle ye till ye’re stiff.”
 “And did ye say she killed a boy?” says she.
 “Not I, ma’am,” says I.
 Judith was always up with me, after that, when the two elder women was away from her. I would a jumped out at winda, rather than stay alone in the same room wi’ her.
 It was about a week after, as well as I can remember, Mrs. Wyvern, one day when me and her was alone, told me a thing about Madam Crowl that I did not know before.
 She being young and a great beauty, full seventy year before, had married Squire Crowl, of Applewale. But he was a widower, and had a son about nine years old.
 There never was tale or tidings of this boy after one mornin’. No one could say where he went to. He was allowed too much liberty, and used to be off in the morning, one day, to the keeper’s cottage and breakfast wi’ him, and away to the warren, and not home, mayhap, till evening; and another time down to the lake, and bathe there, and spend the day fishin’ there, or paddlin’ about in the boat. Well, no one could say what was gone wi’ him; only this, that his hat was found by the lake, under a haathorn that grows thar to this day, and ’twas thought he was drowned bathin’. And the squire’s son, by his second marriage, with this Madam Crowl that lived sa dreadful lang, came in far the estates. It was his son, the ald lady’s grandson, Squire Chevenix Crowl, that owned the estates at the time I came to Applewale.
 There was a deal o’ talk lang before my aunt’s time about it; and ’twas said the step-mother knew more than she was like to let out. And she managed her husband, the ald squire, wi’ her white-heft and flatteries. And as the boy was never seen more, in course of time the thing died out of fowks’ minds.
 I’m goin’ to tell ye noo about what I sid wi’ my own een.
 I was not there six months, and it was winter time, when the ald lady took her last sickness.
 The doctor was afeard she might a took a fit o’ madness, as she did fifteen years befoore, and was buckled up, many a time, in a strait-waistcoat, which was the very leathern jerkin I sid in the closet, off my aunt’s room.
 Well, she didn’t. She pined, and windered, and went off, torflin’, torflin’, quiet enough, till a day or two before her flittin’, and then she took to rabblin’, and sometimes skirlin’ in the bed, ye’d think a robber had a knife to her throat, and she used to work out o’ the bed, and not being strong enough, then, to walk or stand, she’d fall on the flure, wi’ her ald wizened hands stretched before her face, and skirlin’ still for mercy.
 Ye may guess I didn’t go into the room, and I used to be shiverin’ in my bed wi’ fear, at her skirlin’ and scrafflin’ on the flure, and blarin’ out words that id make your skin turn blue.
 My aunt, and Mrs. Wyvern, and Judith Squailes, and a woman from Lexhoe, was always about her. At last she took fits, and they wore her out.
 T’ sir was there, and prayed for her; but she was past praying with. I suppose it was right, but none could think there was much good in it, and sa at lang last she made her flittin’, and a’ was over, and old Dame Crowl was shrouded and coffined, and Squire Chevenix was wrote for. But he was away in France, and the delay was sa lang, that t’ sir and doctor both agreed it would not du to keep her langer out o’ her place, and no one cared but just them two, and my aunt and the rest o’ us, from Applewale, to go to the buryin’. So the old lady of Applewale was laid in the vault under Lexhoe Church; and we lived up at the great house till such time as the squire should come to tell his will about us, and pay off such as he chose to discharge.
 I was put into another room, two doors away from what was Dame Crowl’s chamber, after her death, and this thing happened the night before Squire Chevenix came to Applewale.
 The room I was in now was a large square chamber, covered wi’ yak pannels, but unfurnished except for my bed, which had no curtains to it, and a chair and a table, or so, that looked nothing at all in such a big room. And the big looking-glass, that the old lady used to keek into and admire herself from head to heel, now that there was na mair o’ that wark, was put out of the way, and stood against the wall in my room, for there was shiftin’ o’ many things in her chamber ye may suppose, when she came to be coffined.
 The news had come that day that the squire was to be down next morning at Applewale; and not sorry was I, for I thought I was sure to be sent home again to my mother. And right glad was I, and I was thinkin’ of a’ at hame, and my sister Janet, and the kitten and the pymag, and Trimmer the tike, and all the rest, and I got sa fidgetty, I couldn’t sleep, and the clock struck twelve, and me wide awake, and the room as dark as pick. My back was turned to the door, and my eyes toward the wall opposite.
 Well, it could na be a full quarter past twelve, when I sees a lightin’ on the wall befoore me, as if something took fire behind, and the shadas o’ the bed, and the chair, and my gown, that was hangin’ from the wall, was dancin’ up and down on the ceilin’ beams and the yak pannels; and I turns my head ower my shouther quick, thinkin’ something must a gone a’ fire.
 And what sud I see, by Jen! but the likeness o’ the ald beldame, bedizened out in her satins and velvets, on her dead body, simperin’, wi’ her eyes as wide as saucers, and her face like the fiend himself. ’Twas a red light that rose about her in a fuffin low, as if her dress round her feet was blazin’. She was drivin’ on right for me, wi’ her ald shrivelled hands crooked as if she was goin’ to claw me. I could not stir, but she passed me straight by, wi’ a blast o’ cald air, and I sid her, at the wall, in the alcove as my aunt used to call it, which was a recess where the state bed used to stand in ald times wi’ a door open wide, and her hands gropin’ in at somethin’ was there. I never sid that door befoore. And she turned round to me, like a thing on a pivot, flyrin’, and all at once the room was dark, and I standin’ at the far side o’ the bed; I don’t know how I got there, and I found my tongue at last, and if I did na blare a yellock, rennin’ down the gallery and almost pulled Mrs. Wyvern’s door off t’ hooks, and frighted her half out o’ wits.
 Ye may guess I did na sleep that night; and wi’ the first light, down wi’ me to my aunt, as fast as my two legs cud carry me.
 Well my aunt did na frump or flite me, as I thought she would, but she held me by the hand, and looked hard in my face all the time. And she telt me not to be feared; and says she:
 “Hed the appearance a key in its hand?”
 “Yes,” says I, bringin’ it to mind, “a big key in a queer brass handle.”
 “Stop a bit,” says she, lettin’ go ma hand, and openin’ the cupboard-door. ’Was it like this?” says she, takin’ one out in her fingers, and showing it to me, with a dark look in my face.
 “That was it,” says I, quick enough.
 “Are ye sure?” she says, turnin’ it round.
 “Sart,” says I, and I felt like I was gain’ to faint when I sid it.
 “Well, that will do, child,” says she, saftly thinkin’, and she locked it up again.
 “The squire himself will be here today, before twelve o’clock, and ye must tell him all about it,” says she, thinkin’, “and I suppose I’ll be leavin’ soon, and so the best thing for the present is, that ye should go home this afternoon, and I’ll look out another place for you when I can.”
 Fain was I, ye may guess, at that word.
 My aunt packed up my things for me, and the three pounds that was due to me, to bring home, and Squire Crowl himself came down to Applewale that day, a handsome man, about thirty years ald. It was the second time I sid him. But this was the first time he spoke to me.
 My aunt talked wi’ him in the housekeeper’s room, and I don’t know what they said. I was a bit feared on the squire, he bein’ a great gentleman down in Lexhoe, and I darn’t go near till I was called. And says he, smilin’:
 “What’s a’ this ye a sen, child? it mun be a dream, for ye know there’s na sic a thing as a bo or a freet in a’ the world. But whatever it was, ma little maid, sit ye down and tell all about it from first to last.”
 Well, so soon as I made an end, he thought a bit, and says he to my aunt:
 “I mind the place well. In old Sir Olivur’s time lame Wyndel told me there was a door in that recess, to the left, where the lassie dreamed she saw my grandmother open it. He was past eighty when he told me that, and I but a boy. It’s twenty year sen. The plate and jewels used to be kept there, long ago, before the iron closet was made in the arras chamber, and he told me the key had a brass handle, and this ye say was found in the bottom o’ the kist where she kept her old fans. Now, would not it be a queer thing if we found some spoons or diamonds forgot there? Ye mun come up wi’ us, lassie, and point to the very spot.”
 Loth was I, and my heart in my mouth, and fast I held by my aunt’s hand as I stept into that awsome room, and showed them both how she came and passed me by, and the spot where she stood, and where the door seemed to open.
 There was an ald empty press against the wall then, and shoving it aside, sure enough there was the tracing of a door in the wainscot, and a keyhole stopped with wood, and planed across as smooth as the rest, and the joining of the door all stopped wi’ putty the colour o’ yak, and, but for the hinges that showed a bit when the press was shoved aside, ye would not consayt there was a door there at all.
 “Ha!” says he, wi’ a queer smile, “this looks like it.”
 It took some minutes wi’ a small chisel and hammer to pick the bit o’ wood out o’ the keyhole. The key fitted, sure enough, and, wi’ a strang twist and a lang skreak, the boult went back and he pulled the door open.
 There was another door inside, stranger than the first, but the lacks was gone, and it opened easy. Inside was a narrow floor and walls and vault o’ brick; we could not see what was in it, for ’twas dark as pick.
 When my aunt had lighted the candle, the squire held it up and stept in.
 My aunt stood on tiptoe tryin’ to look over his shouther, and I did na see nout.
 “Ha! ha!” says the squire, steppin’ backward. “What’s that? Gi’ ma the poker - quick!” says he to my aunt. And as she went to the hearth I peeps beside his arm, and I sid squat down in the far corner a monkey or a flayin’ on the chest, or else the maist shrivelled up, wizzened ald wife that ever was sen on yearth.
 “By Jen!” says my aunt, as puttin’ the poker in his hand, she keeked by his shouther, and sid the ill-favoured thing, “hae a care, sir, what ye’re doin’. Back wi’ ye, and shut to the door!”
 But in place o’ that he steps in saftly, wi’ the poker pointed like a swoord, and he gies it a poke, and down it a’ tumbles together, head and a’, in a heap o’ bayans and dust, little meyar an’ a hatful.
 “Twas the bayans o’ a child; a’ the rest went to dust at a touch. They said nout for a while, but he turns round the skull, as it lay on the floor.
 Young as I was, I consayted I knew well enough what they was thinkin’ on.
 “A dead cat!” says he, pushin’ back and blowin’ out the can’le, and shuttin’ to the door. “We’ll come back, you and me, Mrs. Shutters, and look on the shelves by-and-bye. I’ve other matters first to speak to ye about; and this little girl’s goin’ hame, ye say. She has her wages, and I mun mak’ her a present,” says he, pattin’ my shouther wi’ his hand.
 And he did gimma a goud pound and I went aff to Lexhoe about an hour after, and sa hame by the stage-coach, and fain was I to be at hame again; and I never sid Dame Crowl o’ Applewale, God be thanked, either in appearance or in dream, at-efter. But when I was grown to be a woman, my aunt spent a day and night wi’ me at Littleham, and she telt me there was no doubt it was the poor little boy that was missing sa lang sen, that was shut up to die thar in the dark by that wicked beldame, whar his skirls, or his prayers, or his thumpin’ cud na be heard, and his hat was left by the water’s edge, whoever did it, to mak’ belief he was drowned. The clothes, at the first touch, a’ ran into a snuff o’ dust in the cell whar the bayans was found. But there was a handful o’ jet buttons, and a knife with a green heft, together wi’ a couple o’ pennies the poor little fella had in his pocket, I suppose, when he was decoyed in thar, and sid his last o’ the light. And there was, amang the squire’s papers, a copy o’ the notice that was prented after he was lost, when the ald squire thought he might ’a run away, or bin took by gipsies, and it said he had a green-hefted knife wi’ him, and that his buttons were o’ cut jet. Sa that is a’ I hev to say consarnin’ ald Dame Crowl, o’ Applewale House.