CHAPTER III.
"It was to her a real grief of heart, acute, as children's sorrows often are.
"We beheld this from the opposite windows—and, seen thus from a little distance, how many of our own and of other people's sorrows might not seem equally trivial, and equally deserving of ridicule!"
Hans Christian Andersen.
When Bill got home he found the household busy with a much more practical subject than that of ghosts and haunted yew-trees. Bessy was ill. She had felt a pain in her side all the day, which towards night had become so violent that the doctor was sent for, who had pronounced it pleurisy, and had sent her to bed. He was just coming down-stairs as Bill burst into the house. The mother was too much occupied about her daughter to notice the lad's condition; but the doctor's sharp eyes saw that something was amiss, and he at once inquired what it was. Bill hammered and stammered, and stopped short. The doctor was such a tall, stout, comfortable-looking man, he looked as if he couldn't believe in ghosts. A slight frown however had come over his comfortable face, and he laid two fingers on Bill's wrist as he repeated his question.
"Please sir," said Bill, "I've seen—"
"A mad dog?" suggested the doctor.
"No, sir."
"A mad bull?"
"No, sir," said Bill, desperately, "I've seen a ghost."
The doctor exploded into a fit of laughter, and looked more comfortable than ever.