by Simon Stern
“I’d sooner be poor Sarah Maggs than rich Mr. Underwood, after all,” thought Sarah.
The candles lighted, Frank shook himself, pinched himself, stood upright, sat down, walked, stamped, and went through other similar investigations into his physical position, and at last came to the conclusion that he had been released from the ghosts—for he would never believe that he had only been dreaming.
Perhaps it was all the better he should discard the dream, and adhere to the more terrible idea that he had been in ghostly company; for from that moment he became a different man, and he has now the credit of being the best and most hospitable landlord in the neighbourhood. The year after he went out with the ghosts, he built that fine house on the hill yonder, where Christmas now brings some of its happiest moments. The genius of Christmas Past presides there, bringing every year its sirloins of beef, its pies and puddings, its capons, its turkeys, its geese, its wassail bowls, its yule logs, and its thousand other good things, all to the big house of the old miller. The great festival is observed in every detail, and there are little presents for all who call there on Boxing Day.
A handsome tombstone has arisen over the grave of Alice Martin, five miles above the dam; and every Christmas Eve an old man is seen in the churchyard, some say upon his knees. Old Sarah knows that there is a great deal of truth in the report; for ever since that evening when she found her master in such a dreadful fright, Frank Underwood, the miller, always quietly disappears for several hours on every successive Christmas Eve. The white mare and the well-known phaeton may invariably be seen tethered in a by-way near the turnpike, waiting for their grey-headed owner when the bells were ringing in honour of Christmas Eve.
