“Hang Mother Goodhugh—or burn her,” cried the parson impetuously. “A wicked, cursing, old hag. She had better mend her ways, or Sir Thomas will be laying her by the heels. He swore he would months ago, but I persuaded him not. She had been following and abusing Mistress Anne.”
“Ay, poor soul—poor soul, she is mad from her grief, and it makes her curse. Ah! parson, many’s the time I could have gone about cursing too. Poor soul—poor soul! let her rest.”
“I see you have been very busy with the garden again.”
“Ay; it is getting to be what it was. The trees have shot forth once more, and the flowers bloom. She loved that garden, parson—dearly.”
“Ay; and the old house too, Master Cobbe. Build it up, man; build it up.”
“Nay, not a stone. It is cursed—cursed.”
“Bah! Stuff, man. Away with such folly. It is no more cursed than it is haunted, as the people say.”
The founder started, and gazed strangely at his friend.
“Do they say it is haunted?”
“Yes; such folly. Two or three people have sworn to me that they have heard shrieks.”