by bad luck, the woods ranged on either side
for miles, there was a bad prospect before him
—one of spending the night in them.  At length,
there twinkled a light through the trees, and, as
he made the best of his way towards it, he saw
several more lights, and made out what was,
doubtless, a large house full of company, to
judge from the blaze of light from the windows
as he came into full view.  He should, at all
events dismount here, and ask his way.  So he
led his horse up the avenue, and rang the door-
bell.  The door immediately opened, and, before
he well knew what he was about, as he afterwards
said, he had stepped across the threshold.
The entrance-hall was large and handsome, with
a fine old oak staircase branching right and left,
and facing the entrance.  The room was hung
round with pictures, one or two of the style of
Holbein, and some apparently of older date.
He found himself, to his surprise, in the
presence of some guests of the evening.

It was an abrupt unintentional intrusion,
but there was no help for it.  A venerable old
gentleman, whom Drowse thought at first he
had known when he was a boy, but then he
recollected that he had been dead for years,
stepped forward with the unsurpassed politeness
of the gentleman of the old school, and,
finding a benighted traveller who had lost
his way, at once proffered him hospitality.  His
horse was taken good care of, the traveller was
brushed up a little by a couple of footmen who
wore hair-powder, and our good parson was
made as presentable as the exigencies of the
case permitted.

The company was numerous, and the rector
congratulated himself on having fallen into
pleasant quarters.  Some of the company sang
beautiful old English glees and madrigals: "When
first I saw your face," "Summer is a-coming in,"
"Strike it up, neighbour, with pipe and with
tabor."  "Nice folks, all of 'em," thought Drowse;
"how well they sing!"  The venerable old gentleman
then produced a violin, and played one or
two of Corelli's solos, accompanied by his sister,
who managed the thorough-bass part beautifully.
Very odd it all seemed to Drowse, and
beautiful as well as odd.  Then followed a
prelude and fugue of Bach's, which it would have
delighted King Joachim himself to have heard.
Then came a dance between two stately old
ladies, which was called a Sarabande, followed
by another, much more lively and spirited, called
Bourrée by the young ones, which was explained
to him to be a Provençal dance of the time of
René the king.  Those who did not care for
music and dancing had a round game at cards
in the next room, excepting a couple of gentlemen
in a corner, who looked, Drowse thought,
liked Church dignitaries somewhat out of their
element, for they took very little notice of the
company.  But the great attraction was the
music, and if the intruder learned nothing else
by his visit, he was charmed with the compositions
of the great old song and fiddle masters,
and much wondered that he had never heard any
of them before.

At last the company began to disperse.  A
carriage, containing the two sisters who danced
the Sarabande, was going his way, he was told,
and would pilot him through the wood.  On
taking leave of his host, he wished to know to
whom he had been indebted for so pleasant an
evening?  The venerable old gentleman smiled
and told his name.  Drowse started.  "The
very name and form," he replied, "of an old
friend—a great musician, who was very kind to
me when I was a boy.  But he's been dead for
years," he added.  The old gentleman smiled
again, but made no remark, beyond wishing him
a polite and cordial adieu, and the traveller was
soon on his way, splashing through the mud
after the carriage.

At first the pace was pretty good, but his
guides had lights and knew the road, and any
way he must keep up with the carriage.  In a
few seconds, however, he found it well-nigh
impossible. The trot became a gallop soon, and
Drowse, under the impression that the horses
in front of him were running away, and that it
was his duty as a clergyman to be in at the
death, gave his horse the spur and followed at
the top of his speed.

The lights in front bounced up and down, the
equipage reeled and staggered as if it would
upset every moment, but it didn't upset.  Not
so the rector.  A sudden sharp turn, which the
carriage had safely taken, tossed the luckless
clergyman over his horse's head.  How long he
remained in this state, stunned, as he described
it, by the fall, he never knew; but when he
came to himself he was lying on the ground in
the thicket, and the horse was standing quietly
beside him.

In the midst of his perplexity, wondering
what would become of him, and shivering with
cold, for he was wet through, he heard the
stroke of twelve from a church tower.  This
proved his rescue, for by the tone of the bell he
recognised his whereabouts. So he made his
way to the neighbouring church, which was the
means of setting him all right, as a church ought
to be.

Some stupid people said that our old friend
fell asleep on horseback, tumbled off, and dreamed
the story.  As he comes of a sleepy family, there
was, perhaps, some likelihood in the surmise.
But Drowse declared he didn't, and adds that
he never dreamt anything in his life, except the
night before his wedding, when he dreamed he
had lost the ring at the moment it was wanted.
Anyway, it is firmly believed in Grumbleton to
this day that he spent the evening with a party
of ghosts, who were not only innocent and harmless,
but hospitable and accomplished.  Circumstances
certainly give much force to this popular
belief, among which is the fact that he has
never since been able to find that house, or met
with any of the guests.

Dreams have a good number of believers
among us, but dreams are on a better footing
than superstitions.  That the mind should
continue the exercise of its faculties while its
tenement of clay lies inert and motionless, is