It is the only instance in which this explorer has observed ghostly associations so thoroughly exploited; but, truth to tell, they are of the vaguest. When a “ghost story” has many and diverse variants, you instinctively discredit every one, and here the versions are many. Most of them, also, are irreconcilable with the hard, uncompromising, indisputable facts of building construction. For example, the most popular variant, that which tells how, at some period unnamed, the farmer discovered by accident the “haunted room,” is wildly wrong in describing the appearance the house now wears, and has always worn. According to this precious effort of a disordered imagination, the farmer was seated one summer evening in the courtyard, lazily smoking his pipe and thinking, with the typical farmer’s usual dissatisfaction upon matters agricultural, while his wife was down at Ilfracombe (or rather, “down _tu’_ Cume,” as we say in these parts) selling her poultry, butter, and eggs. While thus occupied, he suddenly bethought him of a hole in the roof, through which the rain leaked into his wife’s store-room. He had promised her he would see to it, and, as he went rather in fear of his “missus,” faced his chair round suddenly and contemplated seeing to the business before her return. Now the store-room window was the only one with a parapet in front, and therefore easily distinguishable from the other four that looked down from the roof on to the courtyard. But now (he had never before thought of counting them) he totted up five windows. This was odd! He reckoned up: “Our Sal’s bedroom--window lighting passage--store-room--our bedroom: total four windows accounted for. What unsuspected chamber did the fifth light? He settled that by calling some half-dozen of his farm-hands. Together, with pick and spade, they entered the house and ascended the stairs, and commenced operations on the staircase wall, at a likely spot, where blows resounded hollow. Soon the cob wall went down before the onslaught, and presently the farmer and his men found themselves in a long, low room, hung with moth-eaten, mouldering tapestry, whose every thread exhaled the moist rank odour of forgotten years; black festoons of ancient cobwebs in the rattling casement and round the carved work of the open cornice; carved oak chairs, wardrobe, and round table, black too, and rickety, dust-covered, and worm-eaten; the white ashes of a wood fire on a cracked hearthstone, and a bed, whose embroidered hangings were drawn closely around the oaken posts.”