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Two lovers are wed at the church on the hill—

One, two, three, and away!

She lights up his home, and is true to him still,

But he hurries down to the rear of the mill,

And thinks not of her or the morning.

Two weary wayfarers come over the hill—

One, two, three, and away!

One makes for the cottage that’s dear to him still,

But the other strides on to get work at the mill,

And stays not to look at the morning. Two friends are in talk on the brow of the hill—

One, two, three, and away!

One sleeps, but the cool grass is over him still,

While the other is whirl’d round the pool of the mill,

And his corpse will float up in the morning.

Two spirits fly over the cross on the hill—

One, two, three, and away!

One stays there and prays there and watches there still,

And the other, who writhes in the teeth of the mill,

Is Lucifer, son of the morning.

disbelieve in spirit-rapping, table-turning, and all supernatural eccentricities of that nature. I refuse credence to the best authenticated ghost story (mind you, ghost story pur et simple).

I can sleep in the gloomiest haunted room in the gloomiest haunted house, without the slightest fear of a nocturnal visit from the other world.

But, although I scoff at white ladies, bleeding nuns, et hoc genus omne, there is a species of supernatural occurrence in which I am, I confess, an unwilling and hesitating believer.

The circumstances I am about to relate are of this nature, and were told me by an intimate friend of mine, as having lately occurred to a relation of his own.

I give the story as he gave it to me, namely, in the words as nearly as possible of the principal actor in it.

Two years ago, towards the end of the London season, weary of the noise and bustle that for the last three months had been ceaselessly going on around me, I determined upon seeking a few days’ rest and quiet in the country. The next evening saw me comfortably installed in a pretty farm-house about two miles from the cathedral town of X. The little cottage in which I had taken up my quarters belonged to an old servant of my father’s, and had long been a favourite resort of mine when wishing for quiet and fresh air.

The evening of the second day after my arrival was unusually close and sultry, even for the time of year. Weary with the heat, and somewhat sated with the two days’ experience I had enjoyed