th a very piteous ghost,
who never would keep to the spot where he was murdered, but might appear
at any shady stretch or woody corner. Dan Tugwell knew three courageous
men who had seen this ghost, and would take good care to avoid any
further interview, and his own faith in ghosts was as stanch as in gold;
yet such was his mood this evening that he determined to go that way
and chance it, not for the saving of distance, but simply because he
had been told in the yard that day that the foot-path was stopped by the
landowner. "We'll see about that," said Dan; and now he was going to see
about it.

For the first field or two there was no impediment, except the usual
stile or gate; but when he had crossed a little woodland hollow, where
the fence of the castle grounds ran down to the brow of the cliff, he
found entrance barred. Three stout oak rails had been nailed across
from tree to tree, and on a board above them was roughly painted: "No
thoroughfare. Tresspassers will be prosecuted." For a moment the young
man hesitated, his dread of the law being virtuously deep, and his
mind well assured that his father would not back him up against settled
authorities. But the shame of turning back, and the quick sense of
wrong, which had long been demanding some outlet, conquered his calmer
judgment, and he cast the basket from his back. Then swinging his
favourite axe, he rushed at the oaken bars, and with a few strokes sent
them rolling down the steep bank-side.

"That for your stoppage of a right of way!" he cried; "and now perhaps
you'll want to know who done it."

To gratify this natural curiosity he drew a piece of chalk from his
pocket, and wrote on the notice-board in large round hand, "Daniel
Tugwell, son of Zebedee Tugwell, of Springhaven." But suddenly his smile
of satisfaction fled, and his face turned as white as the chalk in his
hand. At the next turn of the path, a few yards before him, in the gray
gloom cast by an ivy-mantled tree, stood a tall dark figure, with the
right arm raised. The face was indistinct, but (as Dan's conscience
told him) hostile and unforgiving; there was nothing to reflect a ray
of light, and there seemed to be a rustle of some departure, like the
spirit fleeing.

The ghost! What could it be but the ghost? Ghosts ought to be white; but
terror scorns all prejudice. Probably this murdered one was buried in
his breeches. Dan's heart beat quicker than his axe had struck; and his
feet were of