"Hast seen a ghost, Tom Croftly?" cried Master Peasegood with a hearty laugh.

"Close upon it, master," gasped Croftly. "Hey, master, but it be terrifying."

"What is terrifying?" cried the founder.

"That, that," panted the man. "Lord forgive me; I didn't know what I did."

"Speak out, man, speak out," cried the founder, as the poor fellow began to tremble; and he clutched him by the arm, fearing that some new trouble had befallen his house.

"I can't, yet, master, it be too terrifying," gasped Croftly. "The Lord forgive me for doing such a deed!"

"Less of that last, Tom Croftly, and more explanation," said Master Peasegood, sternly.

"Yes, Mas' Peasegood, I'll tell thee," gasped the poor fellow. "I sharpened up as usual--the big knife, you know--and went to cut the 'lowance for the horse and pony, when I couldn't have been looking; and he must have got up there to sleep."

"He? Who? What?" cried the founder.

"It's not I as can say, master," stammered the poor fellow; "the knife went down hard, but I thrust the more, and then, taking up the truss of hay, his head rolled down."

"What?" roared the founder.

"Heaven forgive me, master," cried Croftly, sinking on his knees, "I've cut a man's head clean from his body."

The founder and Master Peasegood stared at him aghast, as if believing he was mad, but the poor fellow was sane enough; and, on following him to the little stack, there was the horrible truth; but Croftly was relieved on finding his knife had decapitated the dead, and not some sleeping man.

"Was he dead, then?" he faltered, in answer to a few words spoken by Master Peasegood.

"Dead, man! ay, months ago. Heaven have mercy on us, it's a horrible thing."

"You're right," said the founder, turning away with a shudder; "the poor wretch must have lain down when we were making the stack, and more hay have been thrown upon him. He must have been smothered."

"Some gipsy, perhaps," said Master Peasegood, whose broad face looked white.

"Here be a bottle by him," said Tom Croftly, lifting one from beside the body, "and here be a strap. Why, master, master!" he cried, rising up with a scrap of clothing in his hand.

"What is it, Tom?" said the founder, shuddering. "Come away, man, come away."

"Ay, I'll come away, Mas' Cobbe, but I've found out who it be."

"You have?" cried Master Peasegood, excitedly, as the man opened and smelt the bottle.

"Ay, I have," said Croftly. "That be strong waters in this bottle; and him as lay down," he continued, sagaciously, "I say, him as lay down upon that half-built stack was drunk, and the steam of the moist hay stifled him."

"But who think you it was?" cried the founder.

"Him as was missed," cried Croftly, triumphantly.

"Thank God!" cried Master Peasegood; "then Gil was as innocent as the day."

"Innocent--as the day?" cried the founder, in a puzzled voice, as he looked from one to the other. "Poor creature, how do you know? But I don't understand. Some one who was missed? Good God!" he cried, as a light flashed upon him, and he took a step or two up the short ladder by the stack, and then leaped down. "'Tis Abel Churr!"

Volume 3, Chapter XIX.

HOW GIL CARR LIT THE LAMPS OF LOVE.

Another year slipped by and Gil's ship had made a couple more voyages with Wat Kilby at the helm, for Culverin Carr had stayed at home, the helper and adviser of Jeremiah Cobbe. The Pool-house had risen again from its ashes, stone for stone, beam for beam, in spite of the bitter curse fulminated against those who should restore it. The aspect of age could not be given to the place, but it was a labour of love on the founder's part to consult with Gil how they should get that clump of roses, that high cluster of clematis, and those bright flowers to grow beneath the window as of old.

Wealthy as he was, the founder could replace many things destroyed by the calamity that befel his house, and with so zealous a treatment it was wonderful how nearly they brought the new house in furniture and surroundings to resemble the old.

At last they paused, feeling that there was nothing more to do, and the two strong men sat at the table in the big parlour, gazing the one into the other's face, as if to ask for hope and friendly assurance of success. For on the next day Mace was to be brought to the new house, and they both felt that, if her mind were to be restored, they must see some symptoms in the change.

The founder begged Gil to help him bring his child home once more, but he bluntly refused.

"Nay," he said; "I will not come. Take her thyself. Thou art her father, and God speed thee in the task."

It was a glorious summer day at the end of July, when the flowers were blooming, and the whole air was redolent with Nature's sweetest scents.

The Pool was pure as crystal, and amidst the broad green leaves the silver chalices of the water-lilies swam upon the surface, where the herons waded, and the gorgeous kingfisher darted across the glassy mirror.

In the old garden the flowers drooped their heads in the heat which quivered over the grassy meads, while the forest-trees were silent in the glowing sunshine. No leaf moved, no zephyr played in the dark shades, but lizard and glistening beetle darted here and there, where the sandstone peered out amidst the heaths and ferns.

Mace suffered herself to be led by her father from the cottage they had made their home; but she heeded not the faces at the window and door, nor heard the pitying words spoken concerning her by the workpeople who had eaten her father's bread for years.

They watched her as the grey-headed founder led her across the bridge, and opened the garden gate; but she did not look. He spoke to her and pointed out her favourite trees, and then groaned in the anguish of his heart, for she made no reply. Her soft, sweet eyes might have been blind; her tongue have never spoken; and her soft, pinky, shell-like ears have never heard a sound, for all the sign she gave; and the founder's heart sank low as he felt that his task of love had been labour in vain.

And yet he would not despair; but, leading her in, he gently placed her in the recess by the open window with her work spread around as of old, and her roses nodding and flinging their odours into the pleasant room.

No word, no look, no sign; and at last, in despair, the founder left her with her maid, and, bent of head and weary, trudged up to Master Peasegood's cot to tell of his disappointment over a friendly pipe.

"Yes," he said, at last; "it is all over, and I am going to try to be resigned."

"Nay," said the parson, "why say that? Be resigned, man, come to you what may; but, after all this preparation, why give it up?"

"Because it is useless, Master Peasegood. Her mind is dead."

Master Peasegood refilled a pipe, and lit it to smoke for awhile in silence, while the founder gazed before him through the open window at the setting sun.

"I could preach thee a long, long sermon on the subject of hope, Master Cobbe," said the parson at last; "but I will refrain. Look here, man, and recollect what thou hast done. Only to-day thou did'st take our sweet smitten flower back to the bed where it blossomed and grew so fair. It had been away in desert soil that had blighted it, and where it had grown wild and strange; and, lo! thou saidst 'I will plant it back in the old sweet soil, and there shall be a miracle; it shall blossom in an instant as of old--in the twinkling of an eye.'"

"Yes, yes, I did--I did," cried the founder, sadly.

"And it did not blossom a bit," said Master Peasegood bluntly.

"Jeremiah Cobbe, that is all."

"All!" cried the founder, blankly.

"Yes, all at present. Wait, man; wait, and be reasonable. Such a thing as thou askest of Heaven must be the result of time, or some stronger power than thine. We have miracles enough now-a-days, for every work of God is miraculous; but we have no sacred conjuring tricks in common life. Heaven forgive me if I am irreverent. I mean we have no such sudden changes as you expected here. Tut, man, wait awhile and have some faith. I'd have more faith in a tender kiss and a loving word from Gil, than in all that thou canst do. Wait, mail, wait. Maybe he is already working at that which proved a sorry failure in thy fatherly hands."

"He refused to come," said the founder, sadly.