The old verger seemed a little doubtful; the idea had not occurred to him.  “I don’t know about that,” he said.  “I have heard that the extremes of heat and cold have the same effect upon one.  So perhaps what feels like ice to me is really the opposite.  But my idea is that the ghosts who appear on earth are exempt from purgatory:  to visit the scenes of their former haunts under different conditions must be sufficient punishment for their worst sins.”

[Illustration:  QUIMPER.]

So that our verger was also a philosopher.

“Have you never spoken to one, and made some inquiry about the next world?” we asked.  “Have they never given you some idea of what it is all like?”

“Never,” he replied.  “I am much too frightened.  Just as frightened now as I was when I first saw them fifty years ago.  Nor would they reply.  How can they?  How can shadows talk?  I only once took courage to speak,” he added, as if by an after recollection.  “I thought it was the ghost of a woman who promised to marry me, and then jilted me for a journeyman cabinet-maker.  He treated her badly and she died at the end of two years.  Somehow I felt as if it was her spirit hovering about me, and I took courage and spoke.”

“Well?”

“I received no answer; only a long, long sigh, which seemed to float all through the building and pass away out of the windows.  But it was a windy night, and it may have been only that.  For if shadows can’t talk, I don’t see how they can sigh.”

The old verger evidently had faith in his ghosts.  The fancy had gained upon him and strengthened with time into part of himself; as inseparable from the cathedral as its aisles and arches.

“Have you never tried the experiment of passing a night in these old walls?” we asked.

“Once; thirty years ago.”

“And the result?”

He turned pale.  “I can never speak of that night.  What I saw then will never be known.  I cannot think of it without emotion—­even after thirty years.  Ah, well! my time is growing short.  I shall soon know the great secret.  When we are young and going up-hill, we think ourselves immortal, for we cannot see the bottom of the other side, where lies the grave.  But I have been going down-hill a long time; I am very near the end of the journey, and see the grave very distinctly.”

“Yet you seem very happy and cheerful,” said H.C.

“Why not?” returned the old verger.  “Old age should not be miserable, but the contrary.  The inevitable cannot be painful and was never intended to be anything but a source of consolation; I have heard the Reverend Father say so more than once.  Shall you come and hear him preach next Sunday?  The whole place will be thronged.  He spoke to me about you this morning—­it must be you—­I have just been to the Eveche for his commands—­and said that in case you came I was to reserve two places for you inside the choir gates—­quite the place of honour, sirs.  You will see and hear well; and when preaching, it is almost as good to watch him as to listen.  Ah!  I have been here fifty years, but I never saw his equal.”