"Well, now, no it an't, marster. I've knowed Miss Sybil longer'n you have. I've knowed her ever since she was born, and I don't believe as she'd go out all alone by herself in the dead of night to the lonesome church-yard—that I don't. And I's afeard as the ghostesses have spirited her away."
"Preposterous, Joe! Have you lived in an intelligent family, and in a Christian community all your life, to believe in 'ghostesses,' as you call them? Are you such a big fool as all that, at your time of life?"
"Yes, marster, I's jest sich a big fool as all that, at my time of life. And I want to go out and sarch for my young mistess," said Joe, in the spirit of "dogged persistence," as he began to gather himself up.
"Stop, stay where you are. If one of us must go, it must be myself," said Mr. Berners.
"Which would be a heap the most properest proceedings, any ways," muttered Joe, sulkily settling himself in his seat again, in a manner that seemed to say, "And I wonder why you didn't do it before."
"She really ought to be back by this time, even if she went out but the moment before we returned; and she may have gone out before that," murmured Mr. Berners, with some little vague uneasiness, as he arose and buttoned his overcoat, and went into the church-yard.
The day was dawning, and the old tombstones gleamed faintly from their bushes, in the pale gray light of early morning.
"She cannot have gone far; she would not venture; she must be very near," he said to himself, and he murmured softly:
"Sybil! Sybil! where are you, love?"
There was no answer, and he raised his voice a little.