and their sudden departure was a regret
to all. "Ah, dear!" said the old dame,
"I heerd as how you was a goin' to flit!
Well, it will be a loss to me, though I
did not see ye often, bein' at a distance.
But it was something to think of, that I
might have a look of your bright faces
when you stopped in your rides to say a
kind word, or bring me a little dainty
nows and thens. I'm main sorry to lose
ye, young ladies, but I ain't no ways
surprised. None does stay long at Manorbere.
The ghost drives 'em out, all
on 'em."

"You don't seem to believe us when we
say it is on account of papa's health that
we are going away. But you know he
came to these parts expressly for the
hunting; and as, since his accident he has
never been able to go out, there is nothing
to keep us here."

"Ah! yes. No doubt there's reasons.
There's always reasons. But still it comes
to this; none does stay in that house; and
it's my belief the ghost drives 'em away,
say what they will."

"But what is the ghost? What does it
do? What brings it there? Do tell us,"
said Effie.

"Well, ladies, I can only tell you what
I've heerd. You see, the Clendons—the
family as Manorbere belonged to— was
always a baddish lot. They were all wild
from father to son, and they drank, and
they gambled, and they was in bad ways
from year's end to year's end, and run
though most of their money. And then
they would go abroad out of the way,
and the place was shut up, and let go to
rack and ruin. The old house was pulled
down because they thought it was not
worth repairing. (It had got into the
creditors' hands by that.) Ah! it was
a fine place was the Lodge when I first
remember it, afore the trees was cut down,
and the park ploughed up, and sold off bit
by bit."

"How long ago was that?"

"A matter of fifty years— or nigher
sixty maybe. When the last Clendons
come back here to bide, there warn't above
half left. But the great house was there
still: only part was shut up, because it
warn't sound and safe. They was a gladsome
set, them Clendons, but the gentry
about did not take to them much, and I
don't think they cared whether they did or
no. They had their friends from London
staying down here, months together, and
French folk; and the goin's on at the
Lodge was the talk of the country. There
was gaming, and dancing, and play-acting,
it was said, goin' on every night; and there
was some new dances they had learned in
France, and they was thought undecent
here in England. I must say they were
pleasant to look at, all those people— pretty,
and gay, and merry. I would go out to
my gate to see 'em come by, such a many
together, all talking and laughing, riding
and driving, and pic-nicking about. They
didn't care what they spent, you see, the
Clendons didn't, for they didn't pay
anybody, and they knew it couldn't last; so it
was a short life and a merry for them.
They lived mostly in the new wing, what is
the house now. It was called new, though
I heerd say more nor a hundred years old;
and they threw two rooms into one to
make the drawin'-room where they had
their dances and romps. Well, the nearest
neighbours then, was the Perigals, of
Dour Grange. Very strict folk they was
to be sure. Never no junketings nor gay
doin's was heerd of in that house; no
laughing nor singing, except it was hymns;
but always grave faces and solemn voices.
And as to plays, or dancings, or cards, or,
for the matter of that, games of any sort;
they thought them things was so many
traps laid by the devil to catch souls. It
was always preaching and praying that
went on there; so you may suppose, ladies,
what the Clendons and their doin's was to
them. Mr. Perigal said ' they stank his
nostrils,' and he always looked as if they
did; and the more the Manorbere people
racketed, the closer the Perigals kept to
their strict ways. As ill-luck would have
it, just afore this time Mr. Perigal' s
sister-in-law died, and her daughter bein'
left a orphan, come to live with her
uncle and aunt at the Grange. Poor
child! I did pity her. She was a bit
flighty in her ways, but she had always
been used to a cheerful home and young
folks for companions, and the Grange was
no better than a prison to her. To make
a long story short, she somehow got
knowledge of the Clendon ladies. It was quite
innocently at first. She met them driving
out, in a lane where they had got into some
strait with the ponies, or lost their way, I
think. She tried to direct them, but they
didn't understand quite, so they begged
her to get into the pony- chaise and go
along o' them, and show them; and she
did. She was a pretty creatur, and
taking, and so were they, to do them
justice; and when she got down and left