BEYOND YELLOW LILIES. 
[continued.] 
A rattle of wheels, and Cousin David’s voice calls 
out front beyond the yellow Lilies: 
“All aboard for the mines!” 
Mrs. Easten comes out at last, and by dint of much 
pushing, reaches a front seat in the open carriage. 
Cousin David sits beside her, and Marguerite and I 
occupy the back seat. We wave adieu to Madame and 
her youthful charges, and rattle away—literally rattle 
away. The wheels of this handsome carriage are like 
four huge castanets. Now, to the well regulated 
Yankee mind, rattling wheels are little short of a dis¬ 
grace. But my companions do not refer to the trilling 
circumstance: and presently, when we go more slowly, 
the noise slackens. 
It is a hot. still night, so still no: a leaf rustles upon 
the trees along the wayside: a flutter and whisk from 
roosting birds now and then. There is no moon, but 
the stars shine glorious in the deep purple sky. The 
muffled, measured beat of the horses’ feet in the deep 
dust is the only sound that breaks the stillness of the 
sweet summer night. 
Cousin David draws up the team as we reach the top 
of a steep hill. 
“There,” he says, “is Curlew Chapel!” 
The country meeting-house lies below us—a long, 
black shadow, sharply outlined against the star-lit sky. 
The windows glow with light. 
“And there, just beyond—you can see the grave¬ 
stones gleaming—is Curlew burial ground. 
Then the strangest thing happens! Just as our eyes 
rest upon the burial-ground there arises upon the motion¬ 
less air of the breathless summer night, a long, quiver¬ 
ing, agonized shriek. 
With fast-beating hearts we listen! And the unearthly 
wail scarcely dies away before there is another, and 
another! There are many voices now, and the very 
tree-tops seem stirred by the terrifying volume of sound. 
I am first to find voice, and gasp out: 
“For Heaven’s sake, what can it be!” 
“I do not know,” says Cousin David. “Wewill drive 
on and see.” 
We clatter down the lull and up to the church door- 
The horses are quickly made fast, and in a moment 
more we stand within the church. It is brilliantly 
lighted; doors and windows wide open; the air pulsa¬ 
ting with "groans and shrieks and cries—and not a human 
being in sight! The church is vacant! 
Aghast we stand, staring blankly into each other’s 
faces. 
Mrs. Easten comes up the steps. She has been for¬ 
gotten in our speedy descent from the carriage, and has 
only just now accomplished it. 
“lie sounds come from behind the church,” she 
pants. 
Bound the church we go. I am not a courageous per¬ 
son. I am the last of the Indian file. Suddenly we find 
ourselves in the graveyard, and have discovered the 
source of the mysterious sounds—the source, not the 
cause. 
A more weird, ghastly, uncanny scene than this, 
which meets our wondering gaze, cannot bo con" 
ceived. 
By the dim, uncertain light of the stars we behold a 
vast multitude of phantom-like forms—a leaping, strug¬ 
gling, shrieking mass of beings—whether ghost or hu¬ 
man. I cannot tell. A dark figure sitting upon a tomb¬ 
stone of the old-fashioned “ box*” kind seems human, 
since he holds a pipe in his mouth. 
Sick and faint from the nervous shock, with trem¬ 
bling limbs, I can scarcely stand, and, perforce, because 
I can no longer do so, sink upon the gruesome resting- 
place, beside the dark figure, who is apparently merely 
a spectator. The composure of this silhouette partially 
reassures me: and. as my superstitious terrors pass 
away, anger rises. 
“ What are these people doing?” I asked my silent 
partner of the tombstone, with much asperity. 
The long, dark form edges away as far as the length 
of the slab will allow. 
“ Gittin' ’ligion ! ” he tersely responds. 
“Oh. that’s it, is it!” with great scorn. “And, 
pray, what are they getting it out here in the dark like 
bedlamites for?” 
For some unknown reason, my undisguised disap¬ 
proval is apparently agreeable to my taciturn compan¬ 
ion. He grows more communicative. 
“ Well, yer see, ’bout time meetin’ oughter bergun ter 
night, sum uv them mourners they cum out here ter 
ther buryin’-groun’ fur secut pra’r. Well, they got so 
happy they got ter shoutin’. Sum more cum, en they 
got ter hollerin’; en they kep’ a-cumin’, en they kep’ 
a-hollerin’ ’til hit’s jist like yer see.” 
The dark figure returns to silence and his pipe. Be¬ 
fore me the strange tide ebbs and flows, surging swiftly 
from the church wall to the graveyard fence and 
back again, tumbling over graves and over each 
other. 
As my nerves grew steadier, and my scattered wits 
return, the chaos begins to assume shape and meaning. 
One manoeuver is repeated many times. Two shadows 
rush into each other’s ai-ms and cling together, swaying 
rhythmically from side to side to a sort of wild, shriek¬ 
ing chant, inexpressibly thrilling, Others come and 
cling to these two, and still others. The swaying and 
the chanting grow faster and faster, until they fall, a 
voiceless, gasping heap. 
My partner of the tombstone and other spectators go 
forward and assist the fallen to rise. A tall female fig¬ 
ure flits wildly about, but what she does I cannot deter¬ 
mine by the starlight. 
There is an unexpected movement toward the church, 
and we are borne along with the tide. Non-participants 
fill the doors, windows, line the walls, and stand upon 
benches. The mad crowd of devotees pom- into the 
aisles, and are spurred to fresh endeavor. 
The pulpit is piled high with hats and bonnets. 
There is no other use for it to-night; no service is at¬ 
tempted. On the pulpit steps sits a grim-faced man, 
'with a sleeping babe upon his lap, and bolt upright be¬ 
side him sits Tasso, Cousin David’s dog, with pricked 
