Everybody dies, don't think?

Everybody come back.

Isn't that so?

You tried to get into the locked drawer today, didn't you?

How do the dead come back, mother?

What's the secrets of the... So this story we're going to read tonight is from the Daminable Tales collection, which I'm still reading.

And it's this one here, Laura Silverbell.

In the five Northumbrian counties, you will scarcely find so bleak, ugly, and yet in a savage way,

so picturesque a moor as Dardale Moss.

The moor itself spreads north, south, east and west, a great undulating sea of black peat and heath.

What we may term its shores are wooded wildly with birch,

hazel and dwarf oak. No towering mountains surrounded, but here and there you have a rocky

knoll rising among the trees and many are wooded promontory of the same pretty because utterly wild

forest running out into its dark level.

Habitations are thinly scattered in this barren territory, and a full mile away from the meanest was the stone cottage of Mother Kark.

Let not my Southern reader who associates ideas of comfort with the term cottage mistake. This thing

is built of shingle with low walls. Its thatch is hollow, the peat smoke curls stingingly from

its stunted chimney. It is worthy of its savage surroundings. The primitive neighbours remark

that no rowan tree grows near, nor holly, nor bracken, and no horseshoe is nailed on the door.

Not far from the birches and hazels that straddle about the rude wall of the little enclosure, on the contrary they say,

you may discover the broom and the ragwort in which witches mysteriously delight. But this is perhaps a

scandal. Mal Kark was for many a year the sage farm of this wild domain. She has renounced

...