“What was its nature?” asked Mr. Bourne.

“I don’t much like to speak of it, sir; and, beside yourself, there’s not a living man that I’d open my lips to.  It’s an unpleasant thing to have upon the mind.  Mr. Verner, he was here but a few minutes a-gone, and I felt before him like a guilty man that has something to conceal.  When I have told it to you, sir, you’ll be hard of belief.”

“Is it connected with Robin?”

“No, sir.  But it was my going after Robin that led to it, as may be said.  Robin, sir, has took these last few nights to go out with a gun.  It has worrited me so, sir, fearing some mischief might ensue, that I couldn’t sleep; and last evening, I thought I’d hobble out and see if I couldn’t get him home.  Chuff, he said as he had seen him go toward the brick-field, and I managed to get down; and, sure enough, I came upon Robin.  He was lying down at the edge of the field, watching, as it seemed to me.  I couldn’t get him home, sir.  I tried hard, but ’twas of no use.  He spoke respectful to me, as he always does:  ’Father, I have got my work to do, and I must do it.  You go back home, and go to sleep in quiet.’  It was all I could get from him, sir, and at last I turned to go back——­”

“What was Robin doing?” interrupted Mr. Bourne.

“Sir, I suppose it’s just some fancy or other that he has got into his head, as he used to get after the poor child died.  Mr. Verner has just asked me whether he is sane, but there’s nothing of that sort wrong about him.  You mind the clump of trees that stands out, sir, between here and the brick-field, by the path that would lead to Verner’s Pride?” added old Matthew in an altered tone.

“Yes,” said Mr. Bourne.

“I had just got past it, sir, when I saw a figure crossing that bare corner from the other trees.  A man’s shape, it looked like.  Tall and shadowy it was, wearing what looked like a long garment, or a woman’s riding-habit, trailing nearly on the ground.  The very moment my eyes fell upon it, I felt that it was something strange, and when the figure passed me, turning its face right upon me—­I saw the face, sir.”

Old Matthew’s manner was so peculiar, his pause so impressive, that Mr. Bourne could only gaze at him, and wait in wonder for what was coming.

“Sir, it was the face of one who has been dead these two years past—­Mr. Frederick Massingbird.”

If the rector had gazed at old Matthew before, he could only stare now.  That the calm, sensible old man should fall into so extraordinary a delusion, was incomprehensible.  He might have believed it of Deerham in general, but not of Matthew Frost.

“Matthew, you must have been deceived,” was his quiet answer.

“No, sir.  There never was another face like Mr. Frederick Massingbird’s.  Other features may have been made like his—­it’s not for me to say they have not—­but whose else would have the black mark upon it?  The moonlight was full upon it, and I could see even the little lines shooting out from the cheek, so bright was the night.  The face was turned right upon me as it passed, and I am as clear about its being his as I am that it was me looking at it.”