“I did.  And I never saw such a likeness in my life.”

“Even to the porcupine,” ridiculed Jan.

“Even to the porcupine,” gravely replied Mr. Bourne.  “Jan, I am not joking.  Moreover, I do not consider it a subject for a joke.  If any one is playing the trick, it is an infamous thing, most disrespectful to your brother and his wife.  And if not——­”

“If not—­what?” asked Jan.

“In truth, I stopped because I can’t continue.  Frederick Massingbird’s spirit it cannot be—­unless all our previous belief in the non-appearance of spirits is to be upset—­and it cannot be Frederick Massingbird in life.  He died in Australia, and was buried there.  I am puzzled, Jan.”

Jan was not.  Jan only laughed.  He believed there must be something in the moonlight that deceived the people, and that Mr. Bourne had caught the infection from the rest.

“Should it prove to be a trick that any one is playing,” resumed the clergyman, “I shall——­”

“Hollo!” cried Jan.  “What’s this?  Another ghost?”

They had nearly stumbled over something lying on the ground.  A woman, dressed in some light material.  Jan stooped.

“It’s Alice Hook!” he cried.

The spot was that at which Mr. Bourne had seen her sitting.  The empty bottle for medicine in her hand told him that she had not gone upon her errand.  She was insensible and cold.

“She has fainted,” remarked Jan.  “Lend a hand, will you, sir?”

Between them they got her on the bench, and the stirring revived her.  She sighed once or twice, and opened her eyes.

“Alice, girl, what is it?  How were you taken ill?” asked the vicar.

She looked up at him; she looked at Jan.  Then she turned her eyes in an opposite direction, glanced fearfully round, as if searching for some sight that she dreaded; shuddered, and relapsed into insensibility.

“We must get her home,” observed Jan.

“There are no means of getting her home in her present state, unless she is carried,” said Mr. Bourne.

“That’s easy enough,” returned Jan.  And he caught her up in his long arms, apparently having to exert little strength in the action.  “Put her petticoats right, will you?” cried he, in his unceremonious fashion.

The clergyman put her things as straight as he could, as they hung over Jan’s arm.  “You’ll never be able to carry her, Jan,” said he.

“Not carry her!” returned Jan.  “I could carry you, if put to it.”

And away he went, bearing his burden as tenderly and easily as though it had been a little child.  Mr. Bourne could hardly keep pace with him.

“You go on, and have the door open,” said Jan, as they neared the cottage.  “We must get her in without the mother hearing, upstairs.”

They had the kitchen to themselves.  Hook, the father, a little the worse for what he had taken, had gone to bed, leaving the door open for his children.  They got her in quietly, found a light, and placed her in a chair.  Jan took off her bonnet and shawl—­he was handy as a woman; and looked about for something to give her.  He could find nothing except water.  By and by she got better.