Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/541

530 pered and  became  well  to  do; but  whether  that was the  brownie’s  work  I’m  sure  I can’t  say.”

Here the  old  dame  began  to  wheeze  and  cough after the  exertion  of  telling  such  a very  long story. But when  she  had  taken  a pinch  of snuff  she  got  new  life,  and  her  tongue  began  to go  again.

“My mother,  who  was  a trustworthy  wo- man, told me  a story  which  happened  here  in this  town,  and  on  a Christmas  Eve,  too,  and  that I know to  be  true,  for  no  false  word  ever  came  out of her  mouth.”

“Oh, do  let  us  hear  it,  Mrs. Skau!” said I.

“Tell it! tell it,  Mother  Skau!” roared  out the children.

The old  dame  coughed  a little,  took  another pinch, and  began:

“When my  mother  was  still  a girl,  she  used go to  see  a widow  whom  she  knew,  and  whose name — ah, what  was  her  name — I can’t  remem- ber, nor does  it  much  matter; but  she  lived  up  in Mill  Street,  and  was  then  a 'woman  something over her  best  years. Well! it was  on  a Christmas Eve, as  it  might  be  this; and  so  this  widow thought to  herself  she  would  go  to  the  early  ser- vice on Christmas  morning,  for  she  was  a constant church-goer; and so  she  set  out  some  coffee  over- night, that she  might  have  a cup  of  something warm before  she  went  out  in  the  cold. Well! she went  to  bed,  and  when  she  awoke  the  moon shone in  upon  the  floor; and  when  she  rose  and



looked at  the  clock,  it  had  stopped,  and  the  hands stood at  half -past  eleven. She didn't  know  at  all what the  right  time  was,  but  she  went  to  the window and  looked  out  at  the  church,  and  she saw lights  shining  through  all  the  windows. So she called  up  her  maid,  made  her  boil  the  coffee while she  dressed,  and  then  she  took  her  prayer- book and  went  across  to  the  church. It was  still as death  out  in  the  street,  and  she  did  not  meet  a soul  on  the  way. When she  got  inside  the church, she  went  to  the  seat  where  she  always sat; but when  she  looked  about  her,  she  thought all the  congregation  looked  so  pale  and  strange, just as  though  they  had  been  all  dead  bodies. There was  no  one  she  knew,  but  there  were  many she thought  she  had  seen  before,  only  she  couldn’t call to  mind  where  it  was  she  had  seen  them. When the  parson  got  into  the  pulpit,  he  was  none of the  parsons  of  the  city  parishes,  but  a tall  pale man, and  him  too  she  thought  she  had  seen  some- where. Well, he  preached  a beautiful  sermon, and there  was  none  of  that  coughing  and  hem- ming so common  at  the  early  service  on  Christmas morning, but  all  was  so  still  she  could  have  heard a pin drop  on  the  floor; so  deadly  still  indeed, that she  got  quite  nervous  and  afraid.

“Well, when  they  began  to  sing  after  the  ser- mon, a woman who  sat  at  her  side,  turned  towards her and  whispered  in  her  ear:

“Untie your  cloak,  and  go  away;  for  if  you wait till  the  service  is  over  they’ll  make  an  end  of you. These are  the  dead, who  are  having  their sendee'”

“Oh, I’m  afraid,  I’m  afraid,  Mother  Skau,” sobbed one  of  the  tiny  ones,  who  crept  up  on  a chair.

“Hush, hush,  bairns!”  said  Mother  Skau,

“only listen,  and  you’ll  hear  how  she  gets  safe off.

“Well! the widow  was  as  much  afraid  as  you all are,  for  when  she  heard  the  voice  and  looked at the  woman,  she  knew  her  at  once; she  had been her  next  door  neighbour,  but  had  been  dead many a long  year: and  now,  when  she  looked about the  church,  she  remembered  quite  well  that she had  seen  both  the  parson  and  many  of  the congregation, and  that  they  had  all  been  dead long  ago. She grew  as  cold  as  ice,  so  afraid  was