University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
POLLY GRAY AND THE DOCTORS.

It was a dark, and rainy night in June, when Deacon
Gray, about ten o'clock in the evening, drove his
horse and wagon up to the door, on his return from
market.

“Oh dear, Mr. Gray!” exclaimed his wife, as she
met him at the door, “I'm dreadful glad you've come;
Polly's so sick, I'm afraid she won't live till mornin',
if something ain't done for her.”

“Polly is always ailing,” said the deacon, deliberately;
“I guess it's only some of her old aches and
pains. Just take this box of sugar in; it has been
raining on it this hour.”

“Well, do come right in, Mr. Gray, for you don't
know what a desput case she is in; I daren't leave her
a minute.”

“You are always scared half to death,” said the
deacon, “if anything ails Polly; but you know she
always gets over it again. Here's coffee and tea and

some other notions rolled up in this bag,” handing her
another bundle to carry into the house.

“Well, but Mr. Gray, don't pray stop for bundles
or nothin' else. You must go right over after Doctor
Longley, and get him here as quick as you can.”

“Oh, if it's only Doctor Longley she wants,” said
the deacon carelessly, “I guess she aint so dangerous,
after all.”

“Now, Mr. Gray, jest because Doctor Longley is a
young man and about Polly's age, that you should
make such an unfeelin' expression as that, I think is
too bad.”

The deacon turned away without making a reply,
and began to move the harness from the horse.

“Mr. Gray, ain't you going after the doctor?” said
Mrs. Gray, with increasing impatience.

“I'm going to turn the horse into the pasture, and
then I'll come in and see about it,” said the deacon.

A loud groan from Polly drew Mrs. Gray hastily
into the house. The deacon led his horse a quarter
of a mile to the pasture; let down the bars and turned
him in; put all the bars carefully up; hunted
round and found a stick to drive in as a wedge to
fasten the top bar; went round the barn to see that
the doors were all closed; got an armful of dry straw

and threw it into the pig-pen; called the dog from his
kennel, patted him on his head, and went into the
house.

“I'm afraid she's dying,” said Mrs. Gray, as the
deacon entered.

“You are always scared half out of your wits,” said
the deacon, “if there's anything the matter. I'll
come in as soon as I've took off my coat and boots
and put on some dry ones.”

Mrs. Gray ran back to attend upon Polly; but before
the deacon had got ready to enter the room, Mrs.
Gray screamed again with the whole strength of her
lungs.

“Mr. Gray, Mr. Gray, do make haste, she's in a fit.”

This was the first sound that had given the deacon
any uneasiness about the matter. He had been accustomed
for years to hear his wife worry about
Polly, and had heard her predict her death so often
from very slight illness, that he had come to regard
such scenes and such predictions with as little attention
as he did the rain that pattered against the window.
But the word fit was something he had never
heard applied in these cases before, and the sound of
it gave him a strange feeling of apprehension. He
had just thrown off his boots and put his feet into dry

shoes, and held a dry coat in his hand, when this last
appeal came to his ear and caused him actually to
hasten into the room.

“Polly, what's the matter now?” said the deacon,
beginning to be somewhat agitated, as he approached
the bedside.

Polly was in violent spasms, and heeded not the
inquiry. The deacon took hold of her arm, and
repeated the question more earnestly and in a tender
tone.

“You may as well speak to the dead,” said Mrs.
Gray; “she's past hearing or speaking.”

The deacon's eyes looked wild, and his face grew
very long.

“Why didn't you tell me how sick she was when I
first got home?” said the deacon with a look of
rebuke.

“I did tell you when you first come,” said Mrs.
Gray, sharply, “and you didn't take no notice on
it.”

“You didn't tell me anything about how sick she
was,” said the deacon; “you only spoke jest as you
used to, when she wasn't hardly sick at all.”

The subject here seemed to subside by mutual
consent, and both stood with their eyes fixed upon

Polly, who was apparently struggling in the fierce
agonies of death. In a few minutes, however, she
came out of the spasm, breathed comparatively easy,
and lay perfectly quiet. The deacon spoke to her
again. She looked up with a wild delirious look, but
made no answer.

“I'll go for the doctor,” said the deacon, “It may
be he can do something for her, though she looks to
me as though it was gone goose with her.”

Saying this, he put on his hat and coat and started.
Having half a mile to go, and finding the doctor in
bed, it was half an hour before he returned with Doctor
Longley in his company. In the meantime Mrs.
Gray had called in old Mrs. Livermore, who lived
next door, and they had lifted Polly up and put a
clean pillow upon the bed, and a clean cap on her
head, and had been round and “slicked up” the
room a little, for Mrs. Livermore said, “Doctor Longley
was such a nice man she always loved to see
things look tidy where he was coming to.”

The deacon came in and hung his hat up behind
the door, and Doctor Longley followed with his hat
in his hand and a small pair of saddle-bags on his
arm. Mrs. Gray stood at one side of the bed, and
Mrs. Livermore at the other, and the doctor laid

his hat and saddle-bags on the table that stood by
the window, and stepped immediately to the bedside.

“Miss Gray, are you sick?” said the doctor,
taking the hand of the patient.

No answer or look from the patient gave any
indication that she heard the question.

“How long has she been ill?” said the doctor.

“Ever since mornin',” said Mrs. Gray. “She got
up with a head-ache, jest after her father went away
to market, and smart pains inside, and she's been
growing worse all day.”

“And what have you given her?” said the doctor.

“Nothing, but arb-drink,” said Mrs. Gray; “whenever
she felt worse, I made her take a good deal of
arb-drink, because that, you know, is always good,
doctor. And besides, when it can't do no good, it
would do no hurt.”

“But what sort of drinks have you given her?”
said the doctor.

“Well, I give her most all sorts, for we had a
plenty of 'em in the house,” said Mrs. Gray. “I
give her sage, and peppermint, and sparemint, and
cammermile, and pennyryal, and motherwort, and
balm; you know, balm is very coolin', doctor, and

sometimes she'd be very hot, and then I'd make her
drink a good dose of balm.”

“Give me a candle,” said the doctor.

The deacon brought a candle and held it over the
patient's head. The doctor opened her mouth and
examined it carefully for the space of a minute. He
felt her pulse another minute, and looked again into
her mouth.

“Low pulse, but heavy and labored respiration,”
said the doctor.

“What do you think ails her?” said Mrs. Gray.

The doctor shook his head.

“Do you think you can give her anything to help
her?” said the deacon, anxiously.

The doctor looked very grave, and fixed his eyes
thoughtfully on the patient for a minute, but made no
reply to the deacon's question.

“Why didn't you send for me sooner?” at last said
the doctor, turning to Mrs. Gray.

“Because I thought my arb-drink would help her,
and so I kept trying it all day till it got to be dark,
and then she got to be so bad I didn't dare to leave
her till Mr. Gray got home.”

“It's a great pity,” said the doctor, turning from
the bed to the table and opening his saddle-bags.

“Thousands and thousands of lives are lost only by
delaying to send for medical advice till it is too late;
thousands that might have been saved as well as not,
if only taken in season.”

“But doctor, you don't think it's too late for Polly,
do you?” said Mrs. Gray.

“I think her case, to say the least, is extremely
doubtful,” said the doctor. “Her appearance is very
remarkable. Whatever her disease is, it has made
such progress, and life is so nearly extinct, that it is
impossible to tell what were the original symptoms,
and consequently what applications are best to be
made.”

“Well, now, doctor,” said Mrs. Livermore, “excuse
me for speakin'; but I'm a good deal older than you
are, and have seen a great deal of sickness in my
day, and I've been in here with Polly a number of
times to-day, and sometimes this evening, and I'm
satisfied, doctor, there's something the matter of her
insides.”

“Undoubtedly,” said the doctor, looking very
grave.

This new hint from Mrs. Livermore seemed to
give Mrs. Gray new hope, and she appealed again to
the doctor.

“Well, now, doctor,” said she, “don't you think
Mrs. Livermore has the right of it?”

“Most unquestionably,” said the doctor.

“Well, then, doctor, if you should give her something
that's pretty powerful to operate inwardly,
don't you think it might help her?”

“It might, and it might not,” said the doctor;
“the powers of life are so nearly exhausted, I must
tell you frankly I have very little hope of being
able to rally them. There is not life enough left to
indicate the disease or show the remedies that are
wanted. Applications now must be made entirely
in the dark, and leave the effect to chance.”

At this, Mrs. Livermore took the candle and was
proceeding to remove it from the room, when the
doctor, perceiving her mistake, called her back.
He did not mean to administer the medicine literally
in a dark room, but simply in a state of darkness and
ignorance as to the nature of the disease. It was a
very strange case; it was certain life could hold out
but a short time longer; he felt bound to do something,
and therefore proceeded to prepare such applications
and remedies as his best judgment dictated.
These were administered without confidence, and
their effect awaited with painful solicitude. They

either produced no perceptible effect at all, or very
different from the ordinary results of such applications.

“I should like,” said Doctor Longley to the deacon,
“to have you call in Doctor Stubbs; this is a very
extraordinary case, and I should prefer that some
other medical practitioner might be present.”

The deacon accordingly hastened to call Doctor
Stubbs, a young man who had come into the place a
a short time before, with a high reputation, but not a
favorite with the deacon and his family, on account of
his being rather fresh from college, and full of modern
innovations.

After Doctor Stubbs had examined the patient, and
made various inquiries of the family, he and Doctor
Longley held a brief consultation. Their united wisdom,
however, was not sufficient to throw any light
upon the case or to afford any relief.

“Have you thought of poison?” said Doctor
Longley.

“Yes,” said Doctor Stubbs, “but there are certain
indications in the case, which forbid that altogether.
Indeed, I can form no satisfactory opinion about it;
it is the most anomalous case I ever knew.”

Before their conference was brought to a close, the

deacon called them, saying he believed Polly was a
going. They came into the room and hastened to
the bedside.

“Yes,” said Doctor Stubbs, looking at the patient,
“those are dying struggles; in a short time all her
troubles in this life will be over.”

The patient sunk gradually and quietly away, and
in the course of two hours after the arrival of Doctor
Stubbs, all signs of life were gone.

“The Lord's will be done,” said the deacon, as he
stood by the bed and saw her chest heave for the last
time.

Mrs. Gray sat in the corner of the room with her
apron to her face weeping aloud. Old Mrs. Livermore
and two other females, who had been called in
during the night, were already busily employed in
preparing for laying out the corpse.

It was about daybreak when the two doctors left
the house and started for home.

“Very singular case,” said Doctor Stubbs, who
spoke with more ease and freedom, now that they
were out of the way of the afflicted family. “We
ought not to give it up so, Doctor; we ought to follow
this case up till we ascertain what was the cause of
her death. What say to a post mortem examination?”

“I always dislike them,” said Doctor Longley;
“they are ugly uncomfortable jobs; and besides, I
doubt whether the deacon's folks would consent to it.”

“It is important for us, as well as for the cause of
the science,‴ said Doctor Stubbs, “that something
should be done about it. We are both young, and it
may have an injurious bearing upon our reputation
if we are not able to give any explanation of the case.
I consider my reputation at stake as well as yours, as
I was called in for consultation. There will doubtless
be an hundred rumors afloat, and the older physicians,
who look upon us, you know, with rather an
evil eye, will be pretty sure to lay hold of the matter
and turn it greatly to our disadvantage, if we cannot
show facts for our vindication. The deacon's folks
must consent, and you had better go down after breakfast
and have a talk with the deacon about it.”

Doctor Longley felt the force of the reasoning, and
consented to go. Accordingly, after breakfast, he
returned to Deacon Gray's, and kindly offered his
services, if there was any assistance he could render
in making preparations for the funeral. The deacon
felt much obliged to him, but didn't know as there
was anything for which they particularly needed his
assistance. The doctor then broached the subject of

the very sudden and singular death of Polly, and how
important it was for the living that the causes of such
a sudden death should, if possible, be ascertained, and
delicately hinted that the only means of obtaining
this information, so desirable for the benefit of the
science and so valuable for all living, was by opening
and examining the body after death.

At this the deacon looked up at him with such an
awful expression of holy horror, that the doctor saw
at once it would be altogether useless to pursue the
subject further. Accordingly, after advising, on
account of the warm weather and the patient dying
suddenly and in full blood, not to postpone the funeral
later than that afternoon, the doctor took his leave.

“Well, what is the result?” said Doctor Stubbs, as
Doctor Longley entered his door.

“Oh, as I expected,” said Doctor Longley. “The
moment I hinted at the subject to the deacon, I saw
by his looks, if it were to save his own life and the
lives of all his friends, he never would consent to it.”

“Well, 'tis astonishing,” said Doctor Stubbs, “that
people who have common sense should have so little
sense on a subject of this kind. I won't be baffled so,
Doctor Longley; I'll tell you what I'll do. What
time is she to be buried?”

“This afternoon,” said Doctor Longley.

“In the burying-ground by the old meeting-house
up the road, I suppose,” said Doctor Stubbs.

“Yes, undoubtedly,” replied Dr. Longley.

“Well, I'll have that corpse taken up this night,
and you may depend upon it,” said Doctor Stubbs,
“I'll not only ascertain the cause of her death, but I
want a subject for dissection, and she, having died so
suddenly, will make an excellent one.”

Doctor Longley shuddered a little at the bold project
of Doctor Stubbs. “You know, Doctor, there is
a law against it,” said he, “and besides, the burying-ground
is in such a lonely place and surrounded by
woods, I don't believe you can find anybody with
nerve enough to go there and take up a newly buried
corpse in the night.”

“Let me alone for that,” said Doctor Stubbs. “I
know a chap that would do it every night in the week
if I wanted him to; a friend of mine down there in
the college, in the senior class. He has nerve enough
to go anywhere, and is up to a job of this kind at any
time. The business is all arranged, Doctor, and I shall
go through with it. Joe Palmer is the man for it, and
Rufus Barnes will go with him. I'd go myself, but
it would be more prudent for me to be at home, for in

case of accident, and the thing should be discovered,
suspicion would be likely to fall on me, and it would
be important for me to be able to prove where I was.
Rufus must go to the funeral and see whereabouts the
corpse is buried, so he can find the place in a dark
night, and I shall have to go down to the college the
first of the evening after Joe myself, and get him
started, and then come right home, and stay at home,
so that I can prove an alibi in case of any questions.
Don't I understand it, Doctor?”

“Yes, full well enough,” said Doctor Longley,
“but I had rather you would be in the scrape than I
should.”

That evening, half an hour after dark, there was a
light rap at Joe Palmer's door in the third story of
one of the college buildings. The door was partly
open, and Joe said “Come in.” No one entered, but
in a few moments the rap was heard again. “Come
in,” said Joe. Still no one entered. Presently a
figure, concealed under a cloak and with muffled face,
appeared partly before the door, and said something
in a low voice. Joe looked wild and agitated. Some
college scrape, he thought, but what was the nature of
it he could not divine. The figure looked mysterious.
Presently the voice was heard again, and understood

to utter the word Palmer. Joe was still more agitated,
and looked at his chum most inquiringly. His chum
stepped to the door and asked what was wanting.
The figure drew back into the darkness of the hall,
and answered in a faint voice, that he wanted Palmer.
At last Palmer screwed his resolution up to the sticking
point and ventured as far as the door, while his
chum stepped back into the room. The figure again
came forward and whispered to Palmer to come out,
for he wanted to speak with him.

“But who are you?” said Palmer.

The figure partially uncovered his face, and
whispered “Doctor Stubbs.”

Palmer at once recognized him, and stepped back
as bold as a lion, and took his hat and went out. In
a few minutes he returned and told his chum, with
rather a mysterious air, that he was going out with a
friend to be gone two or three hours, that he need not
feel uneasy about him, and might leave the door
unfastened for him till he returned.

Doctor Stubbs, having given Joe and Rufus full
directions how to proceed, telling them to get a
large wide chaise, so that they could manage to carry
the corpse conveniently, and informing them where
they could find spades and shovels deposited by the

side of the road for the purpose, left them and hastened
home.

“Well now, Rufe,” said Joe, “we'll just go over
to Jake Rider's and get one of his horses and chaise.
But we needn't be in a hurry, for we don't want to
get there much before midnight; and we'll go into
the store here and get a drink of brandy to begin
with, for this kind of business needs a little stimulus.”

Having braced their nerves with a drink of brandy,
they proceeded to Jacob Rider's.

“Jake, give us a horse and chaise to take a ride
three or four hours,” said Joe. You needn't mind
setting up for us; we'll put the horse up when we
come back, and take good care of him; we know
where to put him. We don't want a nag; an old
steady horse that will give us an easy, pleasant ride.”

“Old Tom is jest the horse you want,” said Jacob,
“and there's a good easy going chaise.”

“That chaise isn't wide enough,” said Joe; “give
us the widest one you've got.”

“But that's plenty wide enough for two to ride
in,” said Jacob; “I don't see what you want a wider
chaise than that for.”

“Oh, I like to have plenty of elbow room,” said
Joe.

“Maybe you are going to have a lady to ride
with you,” said Jacob.

Joe laughed, and whispered to Rufus that Jake
had hit nearer the mark than he was aware of.

Jacob selected another chaise. “There is one,”
said he “wide enough for three to ride in, and even
four upon a pinch.”

“That'll do,” said Joe; “now put in old Tom.”

The horse was soon harnessed, and Joe and Rufus
jumped into the chaise and drove off.

“Confound these college chaps,” said Jacob to
himself as they drove out of the yard; “they are
always a sky-larkin' somewhere or other. There's
one thing in it, though, they pay me well for my
horses. But these two fellows wanting such a
broad chaise; they are going to have a real frolic
somewhere to night. I've a plaguy good mind to
jump on to one of the horses and follow, and see
what sort of snuff they are up to. It's so dark I
could do it just as well as not, without the least
danger of their seeing me.”

No sooner thought than done. Jake at once
mounted one of his horses, and followed the chaise.
There was no moon, and the night was cloudy and
dark; but a slight rattle in one of the wheels of the

chaise enabled him easily to follow it, though
entirely out of sight. Having gone about two miles
the chaise stopped at the corner, about a hundred
rods from the house of Dr. Stubbs. Jake got off
and hitched his horse, and crept carefully along by
the side of the fence to see what was done there.
By stooping down and looking up against a clear
patch of sky, he could see one of the two leave the
chaise and go to the fence by the side of the road,
and return again, carrying something in his arms to
the chaise. He repeated this operation twice; but
what he carried Jake could not discern. Perhaps
it might be some baskets of refreshments. They
were going off to some house to have a frolic. The
chaise moved on again, and Jake mounted his horse
and followed. They went up the road till they
came to the old meeting-house; they passed it a
little, and came against the old burying-ground.
The chaise stopped and Jake stopped. The chaise
stood still for the space of about five minutes, and
there was not the least sound to be heard in any
direction. At last, from the little rattle of the chaise
wheel, he perceived they were moving at a moderate
walk. They came to the corner of the burying-ground,
and turned a little out of the road and
stopped the chaise under the shadow of a large
spreading tree, where it could not be perceived by
any one passing in the road, even should the clouds
brush away and leave it starlight.

“It is very odd,” thought Jake, “that they should
stop at such a place as this in a dark night; the last
place in the world I should think of stopping at.”

Jake dismounted and hitched his horse a little distance,
and crept carefully up to watch their movements.
They took something out of the chaise,
passed along by the fence, went through the little
gate, and entered the burying-ground. Here a new
light seemed to flash upon Jake's mind.

“I hope no murder has been committed,” thought
he to himself; “but it's pretty clear something is to
be buried here to-night that the world must know
nothing about.”

Jake was perplexed, and in doubt as to what he
should do. He had some conscience, and felt as
though he ought to investigate the matter, and put a
stop to the business if anything very wicked was
going on. But then there were other considerations
that weighed on the other side. If murder had been
committed, it was within the range of possibility, and
not very unreasonable to suppose, that murder might

be committed again to conceal it. There were two
of them, and he was alone. It might not be entirely
safe for him to interfere. He would hardly care to
be thrown into a grave and buried there that night.
And then, again, Jake was avaricious, and wouldn't
care to break friends with those college fellows, for
they paid him a good deal of money. On the whole,
he was resolved to keep quiet and see the end of the
matter.

Joe and Rufus walked two-thirds of the way
across the burying-ground and stopped. Jake followed
at a careful distance, and when he found they
had stopped, he crept slowly up on the darkest side,
so near that, partly by sight and partly by sound, he
could discover what took place. There was not a
loud word spoken, though he occasionally heard them
whisper to each other. Then he heard the sound of
shovels and the moving of the gravel.

“It is true,” said Jake to himself, “they are digging
a grave!” and the cold sweat started on his forehead.
Still he resolved to be quiet and see it all
through. Once or twice they stopped and seemed to
be listening, as though they thought they heard some
noise. Then he could hear them whisper to each
other, but could not understand what they said. After

they had been digging and throwing out gravel some
time, he heard a sound like the light knock of a shovel
upon the lid of a coffin.

“Take care,” said Joe, in a very loud whisper,
“it'll never do to make such a noise as that; it
could be heard almost half a mile; do be more careful.”

Again they pursued their work, and occasionally a
hollow sound like a shovel scraping over a coffin was
heard. At length their work of throwing out gravel
seemed to be completed; and then there was a pause
for some time, interrupted occasionally by sounds of
screwing, and wedging, and wrenching; and at last
they seemed to be lifting some heavy substance out
of the grave. They carried it toward the gate. Jake
was lying almost upon the ground, and as they passed
near him, he could perceive they were carrying some
white object about the length and size of a corpse.
They went out at the gate and round to the chaise;
and presently they returned again, and appeared by
their motions and the sound to be filling up the grave.
Jake took this opportunity to go and examine the
chaise; and sure enough he found there a full-sized
corpse, wrapped in a white sheet, lying in the centre
of the chaise, the feet resting on the floor, the body

leaning across the seat, and the head resting against
the centre of the back part of the chaise.

“Only some scrape of the doctor's after all,” said
Jake to himself, who now began to breathe somewhat
easier than he had done for some time past. “But
it's rather shameful business, though; this must be
Deacon Gray's daughter, I'm sure; and it's a shame
to treat the old man in this shabby kind of way. I'll
put a stop to this, anyhow. Polly Gray was too good
a sort of a gal to be chopped up like a quarter of beef,
according to my way of thinking, and it shan't be.”

Jake then lifted the corpse out of the chaise, carried
it a few rods farther from the road, laid it down,
took off the winding-sheet, wrapped it carefully round
himself, went back and got into the chaise, and placed
himself exactly in the position in which the corpse
had been left. He had remained in that situation but
a short time before Joe and Rufus, having filled up
the grave and made all right there, came and seated
themselves in the chaise, one on each side of the
corpse, and drove slowly and quietly off.

“I'm glad it's over,” said Rufus, fetching a long
breath. “My heart's been in my mouth the whole
time. I thought I heard somebody coming half a
dozen times; and then it's such a dismal gloomy place

too. You would n't catch me there again, in such a
scrape, I can tell you..”

“Well, I was calm as clock-work the whole time,”
said Joe. “You should have such pluck as I've got,
Rufe; nothing ever frightens me.”

At that moment the chaise wheel struck a stone,
and caused the corpse to roll suddenly against Joe.
He clapped up his hand to push it a little back, and
instead of a cold clammy corpse, he felt his hand
pressed against a warm face of live flesh. As quick
as though he had been struck by lightning, Joe
dropped the reins, and with one bound sprang a rod
from the chaise and ran for his life. Rufus, without
knowing the cause of this strange and sudden movement,
sprang from the other side with almost equal
agility, and followed Joe with his utmost speed. They
scarcely stopped to take breath till they had run two
miles and got into Joe's room at the college, and shut
the door and locked themselves in. Here, having
sworn Joe's chum to secresy, they began to discuss
the matter. But concerning the very strange warmth
of the corpse they could come to no satisfactory conclusion.
Whether it could be, that they had not
actually taken up the corpse from the grave, but
before they had got down to it some evil spirit had

come in the shape of the corpse and deceived them,
or whether it was actually the corpse, and it had come
to life, or whether it was the ghost of Polly Gray,
were questions they could not decide. They agreed,
however, to go the next morning by sunrise on to the
ground, and see what discoveries they could make.

When Jacob Rider found himself alone in the
chaise, being convinced that Joe and Rufus would
not come back to trouble him that night, he turned
about and drove back to the burying-ground.

“Now,” said Jake, “I think the best thing I can
do, for all concerned, is to put Polly Gray back
where she belongs, and there let her rest.”

Accordingly Jake went to work and opened the
grave again, carried the corpse and replaced it as
well as he could; and filled up the grave and rounded
it off in good order. He then took his horse and
chaise and returned home, well satisfied with his
night's work.

The next morning, some time before sunrise, and
before any one was stirring in the neighborhood,
Joe and Rufus were at the old burying-ground.
They went round the inclosure, went to the tree
where they had fastened their horse, and looked on
every side, but discovered nothing. They went

through the gate, and across to the grave where
they had been the night before. The grave looked
all right, as though it had not been touched since
the funeral. They could see nothing of the horse
or chaise, and they concluded if the corpse or evil
spirit, or whatever it was in the chaise, had left the
horse to himself, he probably found his way directly
home. They thought it best therefore immediately
to go and see Jake, and make some kind of an
explanation. So they went over immediately to
Jake's stable, and found the horse safe in his stall.
Presently Jake made his appearance.

“Well, your confounded old horse,” said Joe,
“would n't stay hitched last night. He left us in the
lurch, and we had to come home afoot. I see he's
come home, though. Chaise all right, I hope?”

“Yes, all right,” said Jake.

“Well, how much for the ride,” said Joe, “seeing
we did n't ride but one way?”

“Seeing you rode part way back,” said Jake, “I
shall charge you fifty dollars.”

Joe started and looked round, but a knowing leer
in Jake's eye convinced him it was no joke. He
handed Jake the fifty dollars, at the same time
placing his finger emphatically across his lips; and

Jake took the fifty dollars, whispering in Joe's ear,
“dead folks tell no tales.” Jake then put his finger
across his lips, and Joe and Rufus bade him good
morning.