power to "lay a ghost," by reading the burial service a second time
over a grave, and taking great care to turn the prayer-book
"up-side-down."

Much of the story which is here offered to the public was written some
years ago, when the memory of the old time was more vivid than it is
now; and although it has been re-written, I trust I have retained in
its pages something of the atmosphere of mystery and romance for which
my native county was once so famous. Indeed, the prologue, while not
absolutely true to fact, is true in spirit. The story is not mine at
all, but was told me long years ago by those who were old when I was
but a boy, and who had no doubt of the truth of what they related. I
am afraid I have not pieced their somewhat confused narratives together
very well, although one told me by an old dame with wild eyes, and a
strong love for a "bit ov bacca," which is reproduced in the chapter
entitled "The Vault under the Communion," haunts me even yet.

JOSEPH HOCKING.

TREVANION,
WOODFORD GREEN,
_The New Year_, 1905.

PROLOGUE

I

The following story came to my knowledge under somewhat curious
circumstances:--

I had gone to Cornwall, my native county, to spend my summer vacation,
and there met with an old college chum, who asked me to accompany him
on a walking tour.

"Where?" I asked.

"Let us do the Cornish coast," he replied, "it is the finest and most
rugged coast in England. The scenery around is magnificent; there are
numberless old legends told about many of the places we shall see; and
I know that legends have always had a great attraction for you."

I must confess to a weakness for anything romantic, and was attracted
by the proposal. Accordingly, we journeyed by train and coach to the
most northern watering-place on the eastern coast of Cornwall, viz.,
Bude, and commenced our journey southward.

As this personal reminiscence is only written to tell how I came by the
remarkable history which follows, I shall say nothing of our journey
that has not a direct bearing on that history.

We had been walking some days, I need not say how many, when we saw,
standing on a rough headland, and yet some little distance from the
sea, an old house. It caught my attention the moment I first glanced
at it. Grey and lonely, it looked the residence of some misanthrope or
hermit, and its tower and battlements gave it the appearance of some
feudal castle.

"That's a strange looking