"there are birds out on the bushes,

in the meadows lies the lamb,

how i wonder if they're ever

half as frightened as i am?"

c.f. alexander.

the night-school was drawing to a close. the attendance had been good, and the room looked cheerful. in one corner the rector was teaching a group of grown-up men, who (better late than never) [196] were zealously learning to read; in another the schoolmaster was flourishing his stick before a map as he concluded his lesson in geography. by the fire sat master arthur, the rector's son, surrounded by his class, and in front of him stood beauty bill. master arthur was very popular with the people, especially with his pupils. the boys were anxious to get into his class, and loath to leave it. they admired his great height, his merry laugh, the variety of walking-sticks he brought with him, and his very funny way of explaining pictures. he was not a very methodical teacher, and was rather apt to give unexpected lessons on subjects in which he happened just then to be interested himself; but he had a clear simple way of explaining anything, which impressed it on the memory, and he took a great deal of pains in his own way. bill was especially devoted to him. he often wished that master arthur could get very rich, and take him for his man-servant; he thought he should like to brush his clothes and take care of his sticks. he had a great interest in the growth of his moustache and whiskers. for some time past master arthur had had a trick of pulling at his upper lip whilst he was teaching; which occasionally provoked a whisper of "moostarch, guvernor!" between two unruly members of his class; but never till to-night had bill seen anything in that line which[197] answered his expectations. now, however, as he stood before the young gentleman, the fire-light fell on such a distinct growth of hair, that bill's interest became absorbed to the exclusion of all but the most perfunctory attention to the lesson on hand. would master arthur grow a beard? would his moustache be short like the pictures of prince albert, or long and pointed like that of some other great man whose portrait he had seen in the papers? he was calculating on the probable effect of either style, when the order was given to put away books, and then the thought which had been for a time diverted came back again—his walk home.

poor bill! his fears returned with double force from having been for awhile forgotten. he dawdled over the books, he hunted in wrong places for his cap and comforter, he lingered till the last boy had clattered through the doorway, and left him with a group of elders who closed the proceedings and locked up the school. but after this further delay was impossible. the whole party moved out into the moonlight, and the rector and his son, the schoolmaster and the teachers, commenced, a sedate parish gossip, whilst bill trotted behind, wondering whether any possible or impossible business would take one of them his way. but when the turning point was reached, the rector destroyed all his hopes.

[198]

"none of us go your way, i think," said he, as lightly as if there were no grievance in the case; "however, it's not far. good-night, my boy!"

and so with a volley of good-nights, the cheerful voices passed on up the village. bill stood till they had quite died away, and then when all was silent, he turned into the lane.

the cold night-wind crept into his ears, and made uncomfortable noises among the trees, and blew clouds over the face of the moon. he almost wished that there were no moon. the shifting shadows under his feet, and the sudden patches of light on unexpected objects, startled him, and he thought he should have felt less frightened if it had been quite dark. once he ran for a bit, then he resolved to be brave, then to be reasonable; he repeated scraps of lessons, hymns, and last sunday's collect, to divert and compose his mind; and as this plan seemed to answer, he determined to go through the catechism, both question and answer, which he hoped might carry him to the end of his unpleasant journey. he had just asked himself a question with considerable dignity, and was about to reply, when a sudden gleam of moonlight lit up a round object in the ditch. bill's heart seemed to grow cold, and he thought his senses would have forsaken him. could [199]this be the head of ——? no! on nearer inspection it proved to be only a turnip; and when one came to think of it, that would have been rather a conspicuous place for the murdered man's skull to have been lost in for so many years.

my hero must not be ridiculed too much for his fears. the terrors that visit childhood are not the less real and overpowering from being unreasonable; and to excite them is wanton cruelty. moreover, he was but a little lad, and had been up and down yew-lane both in daylight and dark without any fears, till bully tom's tormenting suggestions had alarmed him. even now, as he reached the avenue of yews from which the lane took its name, and passed into their gloomy shade, he tried to be brave. he tried to think of the good god who takes care of his children, and to whom the darkness and the light are both alike. he thought of all he had been taught about angels, and wondered if one were near him now, and wished that he could see him, as abraham and other good people had seen angels. in short, the poor lad did his best to apply what he had been taught to the present emergency, and very likely had he not done so he would have been worse; but as it was, he was not a little frightened, as we shall see.

yew-lane—cool and dark when the hottest sunshine lay beyond it—a loitering place for lovers—the [200]dearly-loved play-place of generations of children on sultry summer days—looked very grim and vault-like, with narrow streaks of moonlight peeping in at rare intervals to make the darkness to be felt! moreover, it was really damp and cold, which is not favourable to courage. at a certain point yew-lane skirted a corner of the churchyard, and was itself crossed by another road, thus forming a "four-want-way," where suicides were buried in times past. this road was the old high-road, where the mail coach ran, and along which, on such a night as this, a hundred years ago, a horseman rode his last ride. as he passed the church on his fatal journey did anything warn him how soon his headless body would be buried beneath its shadow? bill wondered. he wondered if he were old or young—what sort of a horse he rode—whose cruel hands dragged him into the shadow of the yews and slew him, and where his head was hidden, and why. did the church look just the same, and the moon shine just as brightly, that night a century ago? bully tom was right. the weathercock and moon sit still, whatever happens. the boy watched the gleaming high road as it lay beyond the dark aisle of trees, till he fancied he could hear the footfalls of the solitary horse—and yet, no! the sound was not upon the hard road, but nearer; it was not the clatter of hoofs, but something—and a [201]rustle—and then bill's blood seemed to freeze in his veins, as he saw a white figure, wrapped in what seemed to be a shroud, glide out of the shadow of the yews and move slowly down the lane. when it reached the road it paused, raised a long arm warningly towards him for a moment, and then vanished in the direction of the churchyard.

what would have been the consequence of the intense fright the poor lad experienced is more than anyone can say, if at that moment the church clock had not begun to strike nine. the familiar sound, close in his ears, roused him from the first shock, and before it had ceased he contrived to make a desperate rally of his courage, flew over the road, and crossed the two fields that now lay between him and home without looking behind him.