Everybody dies, don't they?

Everybody come back.

Isn't that same?

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

How do the dead comeback, mother?

What's the secrets of dead comeback?

Thrawn Janet by Robert Louis Stevenson.

The Reverend Murdoch Sulis was long minister of the Murieland parish of Balwiri in the Vale of Dool,

a severe, bleak-faced old man, dreadful to his hearers, he dwelt in the last years

of his life without relative or servant or any human company, in the small and lonely man's

under the hanging shore.

In spite of the iron composure of his features,

his eye was wild, scared, and uncertain.

And when he dwelt in private admonitions on the future of the impenitent,

it seemed as if his eye pierced through the storms of time to the terrors

of eternity. Many young persons coming to prepare themselves against the season of the Holy

Communion were dreadfully affected by his talk. He had a sermon on 1st Peter 5 and 8th, the devil as a roaring lion, on the Sunday after

every 17th of August, and he was accustomed to surpass himself upon that text, both by the appalling

nature of the matter and the terror of his bearing in the pulpit. The children were frightened into

fits, and the old looked more than usually oracular, and were all that day full of those hints

that Hamlet deprecated. The manse itself, where it stood by the water of Dool among some thick trees, with the shaw overhanging it on the one side, and on the other, many cold, moorish hilltops rising towards the sky, had begun at a very early period of Mr. Sulis' ministry to be avoided in the dusk hours by all who valued

themselves upon their prudence, and good men sitting at the Clachin Alehouse shook their heads

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