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Old Cooper was summoned at night to the oak parlor, where the squire was smoking,

"I say, Cooper," said the squire, looking pale and angry, "what for ha’ you been frightenin’ they crazy women wi’ your plaguy stories? D   me, if you see ghosts here it’s no place for you, and it’s time you should pack. I won’t be left without servants. Here has been old Beckett, wi’ the cook and the kitchenmaid, as white as pipeclay, all in a row, to tell me I must have a parson to sleep among them, and preach down the devil! Upon my soul, you’re a wise old body, filling their heads wi’ maggots! And Meg goes down to the lodge every night, afeared to lie in the house-all your doing, wi’ your old wives’ stories-ye withered old Tomo’ Bedlam!”

“I’m not to blame, Master Charles.’Tisn’t along o’ no stories o’ mine, for I’m never done tellin’ ‘era it’s all vanity and vapors. Mrs. Beckett’ill tell you that, and there’s been many a wry word betwixt us on the head o’t. . Whate’er I maythink,”said old Cooper, significantly, and looked askance, with the sternness of fear in the squire’s face.

The squire averted his eyes, and muttered angrily to himself, and turned away to knock the ashes out of his pipe on the hob, and then turning suddenly round upon Cooper again, he spoke, with a pale face, but not quite so angrily as before.

“I know you’re no fool, old Cooper, when you like. Suppose there was such a thing as a ghost here, don’t you see, it ain’t to them snipe-headed women it’id go to tell its story. What ails you, man, that you should think aught about it, but just what I think? You had a good headpiece o’ yer own once, Cooper, don’t be you clappin’ a goosecap over it, as my poor father used to say; d– it old boy, you mustn’t let ’em be fools, settin’ one another wild wi’ their blether, and makin’ the folk talk what they shouldn’t, about Gylingden and the family. I don’t think ye’d like that, old Cooper, I’m sure ye wouldn’t. The women has gone out o’ the kitchen, make up a bit o’ fire, and get your pipe. I’ll go to you, when I finish this one, and we’ll smoke a bit together, and a glass o’ brandy and water.”

Down went the old butler, not altogether unused to such condescensions in that disorderly and lonely household; and let not those who can choose their company, be too hard on the squire who couldn’t.

When he had got things tidy, as he said, he sat down in that big old kitchen, with his feet on the fender, the kitchen candle burning in a great brass candlestick, which stood on the deal table at his elbow, with the brandy bottle and tumblers beside it, and Cooper’s pipe also in readiness. And these preparations completed, the old butler, who had remembered other generations and better times, fell into rumination, and so, gradually, into a deep sleep.

Old Cooper was half-awakened by someone laughing low, near his head. He was dreaming of old times in the hall, and fancied one of “the young gentlemen” going to play him a trick, and he mumbled something in his sleep, from which he was awakened by a stem deep voice, saying, “You weren’t at the funeral; I might take your life, I’ll take your ear.” At the same moment, the side of his head received a violent push, and he started to his feet. The fire had gone down, and he was chilled. The candle was expiring in the socket, and threw on the white wall long shadows, that danced up and down from the ceiling to the ground, and their black outlines he fancied resembled the two men in cloaks, whom he remembered with a profound horror.