It was Mrs Berens who spoke; the accident, and its consequent call upon her for aid, having in an instant swept away all thought of self, and shown her at once in her best colours, full of true womanly sympathy.

Leo stood leaning against the hedge, dazed and perfectly helpless, while Mrs Berens came running out to help; but only to rush in again and return with a decanter and water.

“Is she – is she – ”

“Hush!” whispered the doctor sternly; “try and pour a few more drops between her lips, and keep on bathing her forehead till I get her out.”

Mrs Berens was down upon her knees on one side of Mary Salis, with her hands and delicate dress bedabbled with blood; but she did not heed the dust or hideous stains as she passed her left arm beneath the poor girl’s neck, and held her with her cut and bruised face resting upon her bosom, while the doctor tore hard at the crooked woodwork and iron which held the sufferer pinned down.

“Leo Salis,” said the doctor impatiently, “if you’re not hurt, don’t stand dreaming there, but run off to the village for help.”

Leo stared at him wildly for a moment or two, and then walked hastily away, holding her left wrist in her right hand, as if she were in pain.

“Hah! That’s better,” cried the doctor, as he set one foot against a portion of the iron-work, and pulled with all his might, his effort being followed by a loud cracking noise, and the iron bent. “Now, Mrs Berens, I think we can lift her out.”

“Yes; let me help,” cried the widow energetically, and seeming quite transformed as she assisted in bearing the inanimate girl into the drawing-room.

“Quick, Mary, pillows,” she cried; and her round-eyed, helpless maid ran upstairs, to return with the pillows, by whose aid Mary Salis was placed in a comfortable position.

Without its being suggested. Mrs Berens herself fetched basin, sponge, and towels, with which the blood and dust were removed, the widow colouring once highly as the doctor awarded her a word of praise.

“Cut in the temple. Hair will cover it,” said the doctor, as he rapidly dressed the insensible girl’s injuries. “Nasty contusion there on the cheek – slight abrasion.”

“Will it disfigure her, doctor?” said Mrs Berens anxiously.

“Oh! no – soon disappear.”

“What a comfort,” sighed the widow, who evidently believed that a young lady’s face was her fortune. “Is she much hurt, doctor?”

“No; I am in hopes that she is only suffering from the concussion. That bleeding has been good for her. She is coming round.”

“Poor darling!” cried Mrs Berens, tenderly kissing Mary’s hand.

“You’re an uncommonly good, useful woman, Mrs Berens,” said the doctor bluntly. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Oh, doctor!” she cried.

“Spoilt your dress and lace too. But, never mind, it will bring her round. Ah! that’s better; she’s coming to.”

“Is she?”

The doctor pointed to the quivering lips, as the next minute there was a weary sigh, and Mary Salis opened her eyes to gaze wildly round, and then made an effort as if to rise, but she only raised her head and let it fall back with a moan.

“Are you in pain?” said the doctor, as he took her hand.

She looked at him wildly, and a faint colour came into her cheek as she whispered hoarsely:

“Yes. Send – for a doctor.”

“He is here, my poor dove,” cried Mrs Berens. “Don’t you know him – Dr North?”

“Yes; but send – for some one – a doctor.”

“A little wandering,” whispered North, bending over Mary, who tried to shrink from him. “Now,” he said gently, “try and tell me where you feel pain. I must see to it at once.”

“No, no. Don’t touch me – a doctor – send for a doctor,” answered Mary.

“But Mr North is a doctor, my poor dear,” cried Mrs Berens.

“Send – for a doctor,” whispered Mary again; and then she uttered a faint cry of indignation and dread commingled as, thinking of nothing but the case before him, the doctor began to make the necessary preliminary examination, to stop short at the end of a minute, and lay his hand upon the patient’s forehead, aghast at the discovery he felt that he had made.

“Don’t resent this,” he said kindly. “Believe me, it is necessary, and I will not give you more pain than I can help.”

“Mrs Berens,” sobbed the poor girl, “your hand.”

“My darling!” cried the widow, taking the extended hand, to hold it pressed against her lips.

“Now, Miss Salis,” said the doctor, “I want you to move yourself gently – a little more straight upon the couch.”

She looked at him strangely.

“Now, please,” he said. “It will be an easier position.”

But still she did not move.

“Did you try?” he said rather hoarsely.

“Yes – I tried,” she said faintly; and then the flush deepened in her face again, as the doctor bent over the couch, and changed the position in which she lay.

“Did I hurt you?” he said.

“No. Did you move me?” she faltered; and Mrs Berens looked at him inquiringly.

“Just a trifle,” he said gravely. “Ah! here’s Salis.”

There was a quick step outside, and the curate rushed in, followed more slowly by Leo, who looked ghastly.

“Mary, my dear child,” he cried, throwing himself upon his knees beside his sister, “are you much hurt?”

“I think not, Hartley, dear,” she replied, with a smile. “My head is not so giddy now.”

“Oh! what a madman I was to let you go,” he cried.

“Hush, dear! It was an accident,” said the poor girl tenderly. “I shall soon be better. You are hurting Leo. She suffers more than I.”

“That cursed mare, North. She looked vicious. How was it, Leo?”

“She pulled, and one of the reins broke,” said Leo hoarsely. “There would have been an accident with any horse.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mary faintly; “and I am very sorry, Hartley. The chaise – the expense. Thank dear Mrs Berens, and now let me try and walk home.”

“No, no, my dear,” said Mrs Berens, “you must not think of going. Stay here, and be nursed. I’ll try so hard to make you well.”

“I know you would,” said Mary gently; “but I shall be better at home. Leo, dear, help me up. No, no, Hartley; I did not want to send you away. I’m better now.”

She made an effort to rise, as the doctor looked on with eager eyes awaiting the result, at which his lips tightened, and he glanced at Mrs Berens.

For Mary Salis moved her hands and arms, and slightly raised her head, but let it fall again, and looked from one to the other wildly, as if her perplexity were greater than she could bear.

Hartley Salis caught his friend by the wrist, and then yielded himself, and followed the doctor as he moved from the room.

“North, old fellow,” he said, in an eager whisper, “what does that mean? Is she much hurt?”

“Try and bear it like a man, Salis. It may not be so bad as I fear, but I cannot hide from you the truth.”

“The truth! Good heavens, man, speak out!”

“Hush! She is too weak from the shock to bear it now. Let her learn it by degrees, only thinking at present that she is nerveless and stunned.”

“But you don’t mean – Oh, North!” cried the curate, in agony.

“Salis, old friend, it would be cruel to keep back the truth,” said the doctor, taking his hand. “It may not be so bad, but I fear there is some terrible injury to the spine.”

“Good heavens!” cried Salis wildly; “that means paralysis and death.”

“Let’s hope not, old friend.”

“Hope!” cried the curate wildly. “How has that poor girl sinned that she should suffer this?”

At that moment the truth had come home to Mary Salis that her injury was terrible in extent, and she lay there gazing wildly at her handsome sister, but seeing beyond her in the long, weary vista of her own life a helpless cripple, dragging her way slowly onward towards the end.

Then there was a low, piteous sigh, and Mrs Berens came quickly to the door.

“Doctor,” she whispered, “come back. Fainted!”

North hurried back into the room, to find Mary Salis lying back, white as if cut in marble, while her sister stood gazing at her in silence, making no movement to be of help.

“How I do hate that girl!” he muttered, as he went down on one knee by the couch.

Chapter Nine.
Dr North Sees a White Mark

Patient never had more assiduous attention than Mary Salis received from Dr North. He had formed his opinions about her case, but insisted upon having further advice, and Mr Delton – the old savant of the lecture – was proposed.

“I’m afraid he will want a heavy fee, Salis,” said North; “but you ought to make a sacrifice at a time like this, and his opinion is the best.”

“Any sacrifice; every sacrifice,” said the curate. “Send for him at once.”

Mr Delton came down and held a consultation with North.

He seated himself afterwards by Mary’s couch, where she, poor girl, lay, flushed, and suffering agony mentally and bodily, consequent upon this visit.

But when the grey-headed old man took her hand between both his, and sat gazing in her eyes, those eyes brimmed over with tears. The fatherly way won upon her, and she said softly, as she clung to him:

“Tell me the worst.”

He remained silent, gazing at her fixedly for some time, but at last he raised and kissed her hand.

“I will speak out,” he said gently, “because I can read in your sweet young face resignation and patience. To another, perhaps, I should have preached patience and hope; to you I feel that it would be a mockery, and I only say, bear your misfortune by palliating it with the work your intellect will supply.”

“Always to be a cripple, doctor – a helpless cripple?” she moaned.

“My child, your life has been spared. Patience. What seems so black now may appear brighter in time. You have those you love about you, and there is the faint hope that some day you may recover.”

“Faint hope, doctor?”

“I must say faint, my child. And now good-bye. I shall hear about you from our friend North. I congratulate you on having so able a friend. You may trust him implicitly. Good-bye.”

He raised her hand to his lips – a very unprofessional proceeding, but it did not seem so to Mary, as she lay there and watched the bedroom door close.

“Trust him? Yes,” sighed Mary, as she lay with her hands clasped, thinking of Horace North’s many kindly attentions to his patient. “Yes, to his patient!” she said bitterly. “A hopeless cripple! Oh, God, give me strength to bear it without repining. Good-bye, good-bye, my love – my love!”

There was a little scene going on in the dining-room at the Rectory, for in spite of Mrs Berens’ protestations, Mary Salis had been carried home.

The curate had thanked the old surgeon for coming down, and the old man had nodded, to stand thoughtfully, hat in hand, gazing out of the window with Salis.

“A very sad case, Mr Salis – a very sad case. So young and innocent and sweet.”

“Then there is no hope, sir?” said the curate hoarsely.

“Of her regaining her strength, sir?”

“Very little. But of her recovering sufficiently to lead a gentle, resigned, patient life, yes. You are a clergyman, sir. I need not preach to you of duty. Ah, Mr North, what about the train?”

“One moment, sir,” said the doctor, interrupting the whispered conversation he was holding with the curate.

The next minute he had asked the great surgeon a question, and received a short decisive answer, which was communicated to Salis.

“But, my dear sir,” he said, in remonstrance, “I have brought you down here on professional business. I am not a rich man. but still not so poor that – ”

“My dear Mr Salis, I am a rich man,” said the old surgeon, smiling, “and partly from my acquaintance with Dr North, partly from the pleasure it has given me to meet your sweet sister, I feel so much interest in her case that I must beg of you not to spoil a pleasant friendly meeting by introducing money matters. No, no; don’t be proud, my dear sir. I possess certain knowledge. Don’t deprive me of the pleasure of trying to benefit Miss Salis.”

“He’s a fine old fellow as ever breathed,” said North, returning to the Rectory, after seeing the great surgeon to the station.

“A true gentleman,” said the curate sadly. “How can I ever repay him?”

“He told me – by helping your poor sister to get well.”

“Ah!” sighed the curate; “it is a terrible blow.”

“Terrible,” acquiesced North. “But she’ll bear it, sir, ten times better than her sister Leo would. By the way, I haven’t seen her.”

“No; I have just been asking about her. The scene was too painful for her, poor girl, and she went out so as to be away.”

“Oh!” said North quietly; and then to himself: “I can’t bear that girl!”

Just as he spoke he saw Leo Salis enter the meadow gate after her walk, and soon after she came into the room, looking perfectly quiet and composed.

“What does the London doctor say?” she asked, after shaking hands with North.

“Don’t ask, Leo,” said the curate, with a groan.

“Poor Mary!” said Leo, with a sigh, but she did not seem stirred. There were no tears in her eyes, and she might have been making inquiry about the health of some parishioner.

So North thought.

“I’ll go up and sit with her now, Hartley,” she said quickly, and turned to leave the room, when Horace North’s eyes became fixed upon a white mark at the back of the young girl’s sleeve – a mark which looked exactly as if her arm had been held by some one wearing a well pipe-clayed glove.

The next moment the young girl, the dark sleeve, and the white mark had passed from Horace North’s sight, and soon after from his mind.

Chapter Ten.
The Doctor Prescribes

“There, my dear, I shall give you up now,” said North one day, about three months after the accident. “Ah! you look bad!”

Mary was downstairs, lying back in an easy-chair, and she coloured slightly, and there was a faint gathering of wrinkles on her white forehead at his easy-going, paternal way.

“Yes,” said Mary. “Do advise him, doctor. He is far from well.”

“Yes; he’s a bad colour,” said North bluffly.

“Hadn’t you better suggest that I should be painted?” said the curate tartly.

“Another bad sign,” said North, with a good-tempered look at Mary. “He talks to his old friend in that way. Bile, Miss Salis – bile.”

“It’s bother, not bile,” cried the curate sharply. “I beg your pardon, old fellow.”

“Granted. But what’s the matter?”

“Everything. I’m troubled about the church matters. The squire is rector’s churchwarden, and somehow we don’t get on.”

“That’s a wonder,” said the doctor drily.

“Then, I’m in trouble with the rector.”

“Why, what’s he got to say for himself? He’s nearly always in London, so as to be within reach of his club. It isn’t time for him to come down and give us another of his sermons, is it?”

“No. It isn’t about that.”

“What then?”

“Oh! nothing.”

“Come, out with it!”

The curate glanced at Mary, who shook her head slightly, but he went on.

“The fact is, old fellow, May takes upon himself to write me most unpleasant, insolent letters. He learns from some mischief-making body that Leo hunts, and I never hear the last of it.”

“Humph! Why not put a stop to it, and sell the mare?”

The curate shook his head.

“I don’t like her,” said the doctor. “She’ll be getting your sister into some fresh scrape.”

“Don’t talk like that, man. She has done mischief enough. What nonsense! Leo can do anything she likes with her now.”

“Glad to hear it; and now I want to do what I like with you.”

“So you do,” said the curate good-humouredly.

“Not quite. You’re horribly snappish. Sure sign of being a little out of order. I shall prescribe for you.”

“Do,” said Salis grimly, “and I’ll take the medicine and poison some one else with it.”

“No need; plenty of people are doing that. Now, look here, you worry yourself too much about everyday matters.”

“Nonsense!”

“It is quite true, Mr North,” said Mary, smiling.

“There, sir, you hear. Then you don’t take enough exercise.”

“Indeed, but I do. I spend half my time going about.”

“Visiting the poor,” cried the doctor. “Harassing yourself with other folks’ troubles, and listening to endless stories of worry.”

“Yes, Mr North, quite true.”

“What nonsense, Mary!” cried the curate piteously. “I must do my duty.”

“Of course, my dear sir, so do it; but don’t overdo it. Recipe – ”

“I won’t take it,” said the curate.

“Miss Salis here shall make you, sir. Recipe: ‘One good cigar or two pipes of bird’s-eye per diem, and three hours to be spent in gardening or fishing every day.’”

Mary’s eyes brightened in forgetfulness of her own trouble as she rejoiced in the advice given to her brother.

“It’s all rubbish, North. I’ve no time to give to fishing or gardening. As to the cigar, I might manage that.”

“Pills no use without the draught,” said the doctor.

“But you a doctor, and prescribe tobacco – a poison!”

“Does people good to poison them a little when they’re out of order.”

“But May grumbles as it is, and is never satisfied. What will he say if he hears of my smoking, and pottering about with a fishing-rod?”

“Tell May to mind his points at whist and leave us alone. There, I must be off. Take my advice, too, about the mare. I shall always hate her for the injury she did to poor Miss Salis here. Good-bye, both of you.”

“Stop a minute,” said the curate. “What about yourself?”

“Well, what about myself?”

“The great idea – the crotchet – the cr – ”

“Well, say it – the craze, man! Every inventor is considered a lunatic till his invention works. Wait, my dear fellow – wait. I may astonish you yet. Good-bye, Miss Salis.”

He shook hands, and left the Rectory-parlour with Salis, the saddle creaking loudly as he mounted and then rode away.

“Good fellow, Horace,” sighed the curate, “but only fit for a West End practice, among people with plenty of time and money. I fancy myself smoking on the river bank, throwing flies and pitching in ground bait. It’s absurd!”

“Poor Miss Salis!” said Mary to herself, as she repeated the doctor’s sympathetic, pitying words; and it was forced upon her more and more plainly in what light he regarded her. She was his patient – nothing more. No; this was unjust, for he always treated her most warmly – as a friend – almost as a sister.

But her old hopes and aspirations seemed to be dead for ever, without promise of revival.

At that moment the curate returned.

“Poor Leo!” he said. “I could not do that,” as he again thought of how attached she had become to the mare, and how the handsome little creature had seemed to divert her attention from the past.

“It would not do, Mary,” he said aloud. “Poor girl! I seem to have been very hard upon her about Tom Candlish, and it would be too bad to deprive her of the mare.”

“She appears very fond of it,” said Mary gravely.

“And the more fond she gets of it the less she thinks about anything else, eh?” Mary was silent.

“She never mentions him to you now?”

“No, Hartley.”

“Hah! That’s a good job. It was hard work and painful; but I nipped that in the bud.”

Mary was silent, and looked at her brother uneasily.

“Well, what is it, dear? Not comfortable?”

“Yes, Hartley, I am quite comfortable,” said Mary, smiling sadly.

“But you looked at me in a peculiar way. You don’t believe that Leo thinks about him now?”

“I don’t know, Hartley. I am not sure.”

“Oh! but I am. It’s all right, my dear. The girl’s ideas are quite changed now, and I am beginning to be hopeful that she thinks a little of North. Why, my dear Mary, how ghastly pale you do look to-day. Are you worse?”

“No, no, dear; indeed no. I – I fancy I am getting better.”

“That’s right; but I am trespassing on you by talking too much. How thoughtless man can be!”

“And how thoughtful,” said Mary, as she took his hand in hers, and held it to her cheek. “Don’t reproach yourself, Hartley; you give me pain.”

The curate bent down and kissed her, and she leaned back and closed her eyes, so that her brother should not see how they were suffused with tears.

“Patience,” she said softly; “give me patience to be unselfish, and bear my bitter lot.”

Chapter Eleven.
Jonadab Moredock Sees a Ghost

Moredock was better by the next Saturday, and he got up with the intention of having a good long day at the church.

“Must keep friends with the doctor,” he muttered. “Can’t afford to die yet. So much to do first.”

He looked up at his clock, and the clock’s sallow round face looked down at him, pointing out how time was getting on, and kept on its monotonous chick chack, as the old pendulum swung from side to side.

“Mornin’, old Moredock,” cried a cheery rustic voice, and a rough, fair, curly head was thrust in at the doorway, the owner of the body keeping it carefully outside, as he held in at arm’s length an old patched boot, which had evidently been soaked in water to allow for a series of great stitches to be put into the upper leather.

For the moment it seemed as if Moredock was some grim old idol, carved in yellowish-brown wood, as he sat in his chair in the middle of his sanctuary, and the new comer was an idolater, bringing him a peace offering; but the idea died away as the old man snarled out:

“Mornin’, young Chegg. So you’ve brought it at last.”

“At last! Well, I haven’t had it so very long. Sixpence.”

“Sixpence! What, for sewing up that crack?”

“Yes, and cheap, too. Why, I’d ha’ charged parson a shilling. How are you?”

“How am I? Ah! that’s it, is it? That’s what you’ve come for. Not dead yet, Joe Chegg, and they don’t want another clerk and saxton for the old church.”

“Nay – ”

“Hold your tongue when I’m speaking. Think I don’t know you. Want to step in my shoes, do you? Want to marry my grandchild Dally, do you? Well, you’re not going to while I’m alive, and I’m going to live another ten year.”

“That’s all right,” said the young man, rubbing his face with a hard hand, much tanned, and coated with wax. “I don’t want you to die.”

“Yes, you do,” cried the old man fiercely. “I see you looking me up and down, and taking my measure. Think you’re going to dig my grave, do you? Well, you’re not going to these ten years to come; and p’r’aps I shall dig yours first, Joe Chegg; p’r’aps I shall dig yours.”

It was a cool morning, in the hunting season, but the young man perspired, and shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

“Oh! I don’t know, Mr Moredock, sir,” he muttered awkwardly.

“Then I do,” cried the old sexton, dragging his hand out of his trousers’ pocket. “There’s a fourpenny piece. Quite enough for your job, and I tell you now as I mean to tell you ten year hence, you ain’t going to be saxton o’ Dook’s Hampton while Jonadab Moredock’s alive, so be off.”

“I don’t want nothing but what’s friendly like, Mr Moredock, sir. I thought as when you was out o’ sorts I might be a kind o’ depitty like, to ring the bells for you, and dig a grave for you.”

“Ah!” shouted the old man, “that’s it – that’s what Parson Salis calls showing the cloven hoof. You said it, and you can’t take it back. You’d like to dig a grave for me.”

“I meant to put some one else in,” said the young man, staring.

“No, you didn’t; you meant to put me in; but I’ll live to spite you. I’ll ring my own bells, and say my own amens and ’sponses, and dig my own graves; and if you marry Dally Watlock, not a penny does she have o’ my money, and I’ll burn the cottage down.”

The young man wiped his forehead and backed slowly towards the door, just inside which he had been standing during the latter part of the interview, and as soon as he was outside he hurried away.

“Not going to die yet,” muttered the old man. “I can’t and won’t die yet. I’ll let ’em see. Doctor said a man’s no business to die till he’s quite wore out, and I’m not wore out yet – nothing like. I’ll show ’em. Only wish somebody would die, and I’d show ’em. Give up, indeed!”

A sharp fit of coughing interrupted the old man, and left him so exhausted that he took his seat and leaned back, staring at the fire, and only moving at times to put on a lump of coal, till towards evening, when he rose and made himself some tea. Then, putting a piece of candle loose in his pocket, with happy indifference to the fact that it was not wax, he took a box of matches from the mantelpiece and thrust them in with the candle, as he believed, felt in another pocket for his key, and trudged off to the church to put things in order for the next day’s service.

Moredock reached the old lych gate in the dark autumnal evening, passed through, and ascended the path, which looked like a cutting in the churchyard, six hundred years of interments having raised the ground till it formed a bank, while the church itself seemed to have become sunken.

Half-way up he struck off along a narrower path which curved round to the old iron-studded door in the tower, a door whose hinges resembled Norse runes, so twisted and twined was the iron-work.

The heavy old key was inserted, turned, and taken out, and as the door yielded to pressure the key was inserted on the other side. The next minute the door was closed and locked, and Moredock stood in the old tower, fumbling in the darkness for the horn lantern which stood in a stone niche.

The lantern was found, opened, and the piece of candle inserted in the socket. The next thing was a search for the matches, which, however, were not found, for they were reposing on the rug in the sexton’s cottage.

And there he stood fumbling and muttering for some minutes in the total darkness, till, believing that the matches must have been left behind, he uttered a loud grunt, and prepared to do without.

It was no great difficulty; for, as he stood in the basement of the old square tower, with the five bells high above his head, and the ropes hanging therefrom, he knew that to his right ran the rickety old flight of stairs leading to the different floors and the leads of the tower; on his left his tools leaning against the stone wall, and the great cupboard in which, in company with planks and ropes, were sundry grisly-looking relics, dug up from time to time, but never seen by any one but himself; behind him was the door by which he had entered, and facing him the lancet-shaped little opening through the tower wall, leading into the west end of the church.

It was dark enough where he next stood, for he was beneath the loft where the school children and the singers sat on Sundays; but in front of him, dimly seen by the great east window being beyond it, and looking like an uncouth, dwarf, one-legged monster, was the massive stone font, round which he passed slowly, and then walked straight along the centre aisle towards the tomb-encumbered chancel, cut off by its antique oaken screen.

His steps were hushed by the matting, and the darkness, in spite of the windows on either side, was intense behind, though above the old deal unpainted pews there seemed to float a dim haze, as if from the great east window, as he made his way towards the door on the north side of the chancel.

Moredock could have walked swiftly along the church in the dark, and he had often done so when he was younger. He could recall the time, too, when he had whistled softly as he went about dusting cushions and rearranging hassocks and matting. But now he had no breath left for whistling, and he walked – almost shuffled – along slowly towards the vestry, where he had nothing to do but give the gown and surplice a shake and hang them up again, and refill the large water-bottle from Gumley’s pump, which drew water from a well in remarkably close proximity to the churchyard.

The big pews shut him in right and left, so that had he been visible to any one at a distance, it would have seemed as if a head and shoulders were gliding along the church; but there was no one to see him. All the same, though, Moredock could see, and as well as was possible he saw something which made him stop short just half-way between the font and the eagle lectern, to shade his eyes and gaze towards the chancel.

He did not believe in ghosts. He had been night and day in that old church too many hundred times to be scared at anything – at least so he thought. But perhaps owing to the fact that he had been ill, he was ready to be weak and nervous, and hence it was that he stood as if sealed to the spot, gazing at a dimly seen head, draped in long folds like that of the lady on the old mural slab on the south wall by the door. It was grey and dim as that always seemed in its recess, and as it glided along the south aisle it disappeared behind a pillar, all so dimly seen as to be next to invisible, and then reappeared in front of the pulpit, passed through the screen into the chancel, where it was seen a trifle more plainly; and then, as the old man gazed, the draped head grew for a moment more distinct, and then seemed to melt into thin air.