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The Snoring Ghost
by
“‘Do people always grow much on their birthdays?’ asked one of the little ones. I had boasted in the nursery, that when I was thirteen I should be ‘nearly grown up,’ and I myself had hardly outlived the idea that on one’s birthday one was a year older than on the previous day, and might naturally expect to have made a year’s growth during the night.
“This birthday, however, produced no such striking change. As usual, the presents were charming; the wreath as lovely as Fatima’s deft fingers could make it, the general holiday and pleasure-making almost too much of a good thing. Otherwise, there was little to mark it from other days in the year.
“Towards evening we were all sitting on the grass, the boys with their heads on the sisters’ laps, and there had been an outcry for a story, to which no one had responded; partly, perhaps, because the exquisite air of evening seemed a sufficient delight, the stillness too profound to be lightly disturbed. We had remained for some time without speaking, and the idea was becoming general among the girls that the boys were napping, when the summer silence was broken by the distant footfalls of a horse upon the high road.
“‘Trotting!’ observed one of the supposed sleepers. We were not, as a family, given to explanations, and we drew a few more breaths of the evening air in silence. Then someone said:
“‘We might make a story out of that, and fancy all sorts of things. Who is it? Where does he come from, and where is he going to?’
“‘It is a messenger from the seat of war,’ drawled the boy in my lap, without moving. Then, lifting his curly head for a moment, he cried, ‘To horse! gentlemen, to horse! The enemy will be at Carter’s Mill by midnight!’
“There was a pause; the solitary footfalls came nearer through the evening mists, and a small brother, of a quaint turn of mind, much given to the study of the historical portions of the Old Testament, sat up and said, slowly:
“‘It is one of Job’s messengers. The Chaldeans made out three bands, and fell upon the camels, and have carried them away, yea, and slain the servants with the edge of the sword; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.‘
“The others boys laughed, but he lay down again, as solemnly as he had risen.
“‘That was a foot-messenger,’ said my boy, contemptuously.
“‘It doesn’t say so,’ retorted the small brother.
“‘Well, any way, the camels had been carried off–so what did he ride upon?’
“A squabble was imminent. I covered my boy’s face with a handkerchief, to keep him quiet.
“‘Listen!’ I said. ‘It’s the post. The mail from the north was stopped on the highway, but he has saved the bags, and is riding hard for London.’
“‘It’s–‘
“But the new suggestion was drowned in a general shout of–
“‘It’s coming up the lane!’
“The footfalls had diverged from the main road, and were coming up the sandy lane that skirted our wall. The boys lifted their heads, and we sat expectant. There was a pause, and a familiar gate-click, and then the footfalls broke upon the carriage-road, close by us. A man in livery, upon a well-groomed horse–nothing more, but rather an uncommon sight with us. Moreover, the man and his livery were strange, and the horse looked tired.
“This event broke up the sitting, and we were strolling up to the house, when a maid met us, saying that my mother wished to see me and Fatima.
“We found my mother sewing, with an opened letter beside her. It was written on one of the large quarto sheets then in use, and it was covered and crossed, at every available corner, in a vague, scratchy hand.
“‘I have heard from an old friend of mine, Mary,’ said my mother. ‘She has come to live about twelves miles from here. There is something in the letter about you and Fatima, and you may read that part aloud, if you can. The top of the last page.’