"It was to her a real grief of heart, acute, as children's  sorrows often are.
 
"We beheld this from the opposite windows—and, seen thus 
from a little distance, how many of our own and of other 
people's sorrows might not seem equally trivial, and 
equally deserving of ridicule!"
 
Hans Christian Andersen.
 
 
When Bill got home he found the household busy with a much more practical subject than that of ghosts [202]and haunted yew-trees. Bessy was ill. She had felt a pain in her side all the day, which towards night had become so violent that the doctor was sent for, who had pronounced it pleurisy, and had sent her to bed. He was just coming downstairs as Bill burst into the house. The mother was too much occupied about her daughter to notice the lad's condition; but the doctor's sharp eyes saw that something was amiss, and he at once inquired what it was. Bill hammered and stammered, and stopped short. The doctor was such a tall, stout, comfortable-looking man, he looked as if he couldn't believe in ghosts. A slight frown, however, had come over his comfortable face, and he laid two fingers on Bill's wrist as he repeated his question.
 
"Please, sir," said Bill, "I've seen—"
 
"A mad dog?" suggested the doctor.
 
"No, sir."
 
"A mad bull?"
 
"No, sir," said Bill, desperately, "I've seen a ghost."
 
The doctor exploded into a fit of laughter, and looked more comfortable than ever.
 
"And where did we see the ghost?" he inquired, in a professional voice, as he took up his coat-tails and warmed himself at the fire.
 
"In Yew-lane, sir; and I'm sure I did see it," [203] said Bill, half crying; "it was all in white, and beckoned me."
 
"That's to say you saw a white gravestone, or a tree in the moonlight, or one of your classmates dressed up in a table-cloth. It was all moonshine, depend upon it," said the doctor, with a chuckle at his own joke; "take my advice, my boy, and don't give way to foolish fancies."
 
At this point the mother spoke—
 
"If his father knew, sir, as he'd got any such fads in his head, he'd soon flog 'em out of him."
 
"His father is a very good one," said the doctor; "a little too fond of the stick, perhaps. There," he added, good-naturedly, slipping sixpence into Bill's hand, "get a new knife, my boy, and cut a good thick stick, and the next ghost you meet, lay hold of him and let him taste it."
 
Bill tried to thank him, but somehow his voice was choked, and the doctor turned to his mother.
 
"The boy has been frightened," he said, "and is upset. Give him some supper, and put him to bed." And the good gentleman departed.
 
Bill was duly feasted and sent to rest. His mother did not mention the matter to her husband, as she knew he would be angry; and occupied with real anxiety for her daughter, she soon forgot it herself. Consequently, the next night-school night [204]she sent Bill to "clean himself," hurried on his tea, and packed him off, just as if nothing had happened.
 
The boy's feelings since the night of the apparition had not been enviable. He could neither eat nor sleep. As he lay in bed at night, he kept his face covered with the clothes, dreading that if he peeped out into the room the phantom of the murdered horseman would beckon to him from the dark corners. Lying so till the dawn broke and the cocks began to crow, he would then look cautiously forth, and seeing by the grey light that the corners were empty, and that the figure by the door was not the Yew-lane Ghost, but his mother's faded print dress hanging on a nail, would drop his head and fall wearily asleep. The day was no better, for each hour brought him nearer to the next night school; and Bessy's illness made his mother so busy, that he never could find the right moment to ask her sympathy for his fears, and still less could he feel himself able to overcome them. And so the night-school came round again, and there he sat, gulping down a few mouthfuls of food, and wondering how he should begin to tell his mother that he neither dare, could, nor would, go down Yew-lane again at night. He had just opened his lips when the father came in, and asked in a loud voice "Why Bill was not off." This effectually put a stop to any confidences, and the boy ran out of the [205]house. Not, however, to school. He made one or two desperate efforts at determination, and then gave up altogether. He could not go!
 
He was wondering what he should do with himself, when it struck him that he would go whilst it was daylight and look for the grave with the odd verse of which Bessy had spoken. He had no difficulty in finding it. It was marked by a large ugly stone, on which the inscription was green and in some places almost effaced.
 
SACRED TO THE MEMORY
 
OF
 
EPHRAIM GARNETT—
 
He had read so far when a voice close by him said—
 
"You'll be late for school, young chap."
 
Bill looked up, and to his horror beheld Bully Tom standing in the road and kicking the churchyard wall.
 
"Aren't you going?" he asked, as Bill did not speak.
 
"Not to-night," said Bill, with crimson cheeks.
 
"Larking, eh?" said Bully Tom. "My eyes, won't your father give it you!" and he began to move off.
 
[206]
 
"Stop!" shouted Bill in an agony; "don't tell him, Tom. That would be a dirty trick. I'll go next time, I will indeed; I can't go to-night. I'm not larking, I'm scared. You won't tell?"
 
"Not this time, maybe," was the reply; "but I wouldn't be in your shoes if you play this game next night;" and off he went.
 
Bill thought it well to quit the churchyard at once for some place where he was not likely to be seen; he had never played truant before, and for the next hour or two was thoroughly miserable as he slunk about the premises of a neighbouring farm, and finally took refuge in a shed, and began to consider his position. He would remain hidden till nine o'clock, and then go home. If nothing were said, well and good; unless some accident should afterwards betray him. But if his mother asked any questions about the school? He dared not, and he would not, tell a lie; and yet what would be the result of the truth coming out? There could be no doubt that his father would beat him. Bill thought again, and decided that he could bear a thrashing, but not the sight of the Yew-lane Ghost; so he remained where he was, wondering how it would be, and how he should get over the next school-night when it came. The prospect was so hopeless, and the poor lad so wearied with anxiety and wakeful [207]nights, that he was almost asleep when he was startled by the church clock striking nine; and, jumping up, he ran home. His heart beat heavily as he crossed the threshold; but his mother was still absorbed by thoughts of Bessy, and he went to bed unquestioned. The next day too passed over without any awkward remarks, which was very satisfactory; but then night-school day came again, and Bill felt that he was in a worse position than ever. He had played truant once with success; but he was aware that it would not do a second time. Bully Tom was spiteful, and Master Arthur might come to "look up" his recreant pupil, and then Bill's father would know all.
 
On the morning of the much-dreaded day, his mother sent him up to the Rectory to fetch some little delicacy that had been promised for Bessy's dinner. He generally found it rather amusing to go there. He liked to peep at the pretty garden, to look out for Master Arthur, and to sit in the kitchen and watch the cook, and wonder what she did with all the dishes and bright things that decorated the walls. To-day all was quite different. He avoided the gardens, he was afraid of being seen by his teacher, and though cook had an unusual display of pots and pans in operation, he sat in the corner of the kitchen indifferent to everything but the thought of the Yew-lane Ghost. The dinner for Bessy was [208]put between two saucers, and as cook gave it into his hands she asked kindly after his sister, and added—
 
"You don't look over-well yourself, lad! What's amiss?"
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