committed three men for some trifling trespass
upon his own property. The Major declared
that this was a most unchristian proceeding,
and refused to attend church; the large
family pew in the pretty village church
consequently remained untenanted Sunday after
Sunday, to the intense disgust of the rector,
and the great scandal of the county-side.
But the crowning act of his unpopularity was,
that, at a supper which he gave to the tenants
and farmers on his estate, he announced his
intention of not preserving his game, and
gave them all free permission to kill whatever
they found on their own land.

This proceeding was in such direct opposition
to the customs of the county, that the gentry
looked upon it as a reflection upon them, and
resented it accordingly. They all cut the major,
and spoke of him as an infidel, a Jacobite,
and a revolutionary democrat. The Major
took all this with great indifference, and
seemed, indeed, to enjoy exasperating their
prejudices. To his own tenants he made a
kind but strictly just landlord,—all the
fences, farm-houses, and buildings were kept
in perfect repair, the cottages of the labourers
were rebuilt. He showed the greatest desire
to make the condition of all who depended on
him as good as possible; but, in spite of the
substantial benefits he conferred, he was
anything but popular: he was too much of a
reformer, and made no allowance for the
natural unwillingness of men to walk in new
ways. He liked to be in the opposition,
and would any day have preferred to fight
for his own way, rather than obtain it
uncontested.

As for myself, I was much attached to him,
partly for his own sake, and partly for the
sake of old times, which he so strangely
brought back to me, though he never, by the
most trivial word or deed recognised any
former state of intercourse. A year passed
on without any remarkable occurrence; but
then, there befel a curious adventure. The
Major and I went to attend an agricultural
dinner that took place in the next town, which
is a cathedral town. As we returned home,
it was a bright moonlight night. The streets
were deserted; everybody was in bed; but, as
we drove past the cathedral, I distinctly saw
a figure at one of the lower windows, fluttering
a handkerchief, and I fancied I heard
a faint voice cry, "Help!" I do not
believe in ghosts, but I confess my heart beat
thick.

"Good heaven! " said the Major, "some
one has been buried alive, and is trying lo
escape!"

"More likely some poor mad creature who
has escaped from confinement, and has hidden
herself there."

Again we heard the cry of "Help!"

The Major sprang from the gig. I did
not like him to go alone, but the horse was
young and spirited, and could not be left.

The Major soon returned. " We must find
out the sexton," said he, hastily; "it is a
poor young woman who has been locked in
by accident. She seems to be nearly mad
with fear."

There was not a soul to be seen about.
We did not the least in the world know
where the keys were kept; but we were,
obliged to do something. After knocking up
several wrong people, who did not bestow
blessings upon us for our pains, we at length
discovered the clerk, and with some difficulty
got him and his lantern into the street. The
Major and he went together to the cathedral,
and I remained with the gig. They soon
returned, carrying between them a young
girl, who seemed to be dead. They took her
into the house, and the clerk's wife came
down-stairs; lights appeared in the various
houses, whose inmates we had disturbed, and
night-capped heads were popped out of the
windows to see what had happened. One or
two, more curious than the rest, came into
the street, to learn the rights of the case.
As soon as the poor girl, was sufficiently
recovered to be able to speak, she told us that
she had come from Sutton-Cosely that day
with a party of friends for a day's shopping,
and to see the monuments in the cathedral.
While she was looking at one of the tombs,
her party passed on; and, when she turned
round, she saw them leaving the building.
She called, but no one heard: in her
haste, her foot slipped, and she fell down
against a pillar, and cut her brow, before
she could rise, she heard the ponderous doors
clang together, and the key turn in the lock.
At first she thought they would miss her and
return: but time passed on, and they did not
come. She beat against the door, but could
make no one hear. Evening closed in, she
grew desperate at the prospect of remaining
there all night. The last thing she recollected
was climbing to a window and breaking
the glass to attract attention. Poor
thing, it was no wonder she was frightened
at the prospect of remaining in that great
dark lonely place full of graves! I should
not have liked it myself.

The Major decided that we would drive
her home, late as it was, to save her friends
further anxiety. She was well wrapped up,
and we took her between us in the gig.

She lived about five miles across the
country, in an old moated farmhouse that
had been once a manor-house. It was now
a dim ghostly-looking place, built of grey
stone, and half unoccupied. As we drove
down the lane that led to the house, we saw
a number of persons moving about in great
excitement. The sound of our vehicle called
some persons to the door. Foremost among
them was the farmer holding a candle above
his head, and his other hand shading his eyes;
behind him were the maid-servants. I could
feel the poor girl shrink closer to us when
he appeared.

"We have brought back your daughter