When the fears and the superstitions came palpably in Lionel’s way, he made fun of them—­as Jan might have done.  Once or twice he felt half provoked; and asked the people, in a tone between earnest and jest, whether they were not ashamed of themselves.  Little reply made they; not one of them but seemed to shrink from mentioning to Lionel Verner the name that the ghost had borne in life.

On nearly the last evening that it would be light during this moon, Mr. Bourne started from home to pay a visit to Mrs. Hook, the labourer’s wife.  The woman had been ailing for some time; partly from natural illness, partly from chagrin—­for her daughter Alice was the talk of the village—­and she had now become seriously ill.  On this day Mr. Bourne had accidentally met Jan; and, in conversing upon parish matters, he had inquired after Mrs. Hook.

“Very much worse,” was Jan’s answer.  “Unless a change takes place, she’ll not last many days.”

The clergyman was shocked; he had not deemed her to be in danger.  “I will go and see her to-day,” said he.  “You can tell her that I am coming.”

He was a conscientious man; liking to do his duty, and especially kind to those that were in sickness or trouble.  Neither did he willingly break a specific promise.  He made no doubt that Jan delivered the message, and therefore he went; though it was late at night when he started, other duties having detained him throughout the day.

His most direct way from the vicarage to Hook’s cottage, took him past the Willow Pond. He had no fear of ghosts, and therefore he chose it, in preference to going down Clay Lane, which was farther round.  The Willow Pool looked lonely enough as he passed it, its waters gleaming in the moonlight, its willows bending.  A little farther on, the clergyman’s ears became alive to the sound of sobs, as from a person in distress.  There was Alice Hook, seated on a bench underneath some elm-trees, sobbing enough to break her heart.

However the girl might have got herself under the censure of the neighbourhood, it is a clergyman’s office to console, rather than to condemn.  And he could not help liking pretty Alice; she had been one of the most tractable pupils in his Sunday-school.  He addressed her as soothingly, as considerately, as though she were one of the first ladies in his parish; harshness would not mend the matter now.  Her heart opened to the kindness.

“I’ve broke mother’s heart, and killed her!” cried she, with a wild burst of sobs.  “But for me, she might have got well.”

“She may get well still, Alice,” replied the vicar.  “I am going on to see her now.  What are you doing here?”

“I am on my way, sir, to get the fresh physic for her.  Mr. Jan, he said this morning as somebody was to go for it; but the rest have been out all day.  As I came along, I got thinking of the time, sir, when I could go about by daylight with my head up, like the best of ’em; and it overcame me.”