They say the dead smugglers still drive their ponies up from the beach, across the lawn where the old road was, and, as it sounds, through the round rooms downstairs, in which my father lives, on their way up into the forest .-- You cannot help seeing--although you see nothing--how the ponies are ill-used, hounded and flogged.

The last of the drove are lame and utterly worn out.

They stumble along anyhow and one falls.

Oh! it is cruel, wicked.

And it is--was, really true, cousin Tom.