There is grey hair upon his temples (some, not much), and his step has lost something of its elasticity (not a great deal), and his form is somewhat bowed (though not really crooked).
But he still lives there in the farmstead at Gettysburg, and Leonora, now, like himself, an old woman, is still at his side.
You may see him any day.

In fact, he is the old man who shows you over the battlefield for fifty cents and explains how he himself fought and won the great battle.
VIII BUGGAM GRANGE A GOOD OLD GHOST STORY _VIII .-- Buggam Grange: A Good Old Ghost Story._ The evening was already falling as the vehicle in which I was contained entered upon the long and gloomy avenue that leads to Buggam Grange.
A resounding shriek echoed through the wood as I entered the avenue.

I paid no attention to it at the moment, judging it to be merely one of those resounding shrieks which one might expect to hear in such a place at such a time.

As my drive continued, however I found myself wondering in spite of myself why such a shriek should have been uttered at the very moment of my approach.
I am not by temperament in any degree a nervous man, and yet there was much in my surroundings to justify a certain feeling of apprehension.
The Grange is situated in the loneliest part of England, the marsh country of the fens to which civilization has still hardly penetrated.
The inhabitants, of whom there are only one and a half to the square mile, live here and there among the fens and eke out a miserable existence by frog-fishing and catching flies.

They speak a dialect so broken as to be practically unintelligible, while the perpetual rain which falls upon them renders speech itself almost superfluous.
Here and there where the ground rises slightly above the level of the fens there are dense woods tangled with parasitic creepers and filled with owls.