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Wind-blown trees—Marshlands—September weather—Wainfleet—An ancient school—The scent of the sea—The rehabilitation of the old-fashioned ghost—A Lincolnshire mystery—A vain search—Too much alike—Delightfully indefinite—Halton Holgate—In quest of a haunted house.

Leaving Wrangle, the country to our right became still more open; for the rest of our way we followed the changeful line of the sea-coast at a distance of about a mile or more inland. The wind, coming unrestrained from the seaward over the flat marsh-like meadow lands, bore to us the unmistakable flavour of the "briny," its bracing and refreshing salt breath, cool and tonic-laden, was very grateful to our lungs after the soft, soothing country airs that we had been so long accustomed to. The trees here, what few trees there existed that is, were stunted, tortured, and wind-blown to one side; but strangely enough, not as is usually the case, bent inward from the sea but towards it, plainly proving that the strong gales and prevailing winds in this quarter are from the land side, thus reversing the general order of things on our coasts.

Another notable feature of our road—in marked contrast with the early portion of our stage out from Boston—was the fact that for the next nine miles or