igures, I saw them now. They suddenly appeared by my side, and
though I was going at a great rate--for the horse took fright--they kept
easy pace with me. Twice I essayed to speak to them, but could not
ejaculate a syllable through sheer horror, and it was only by nerving
myself to the utmost, and forcing my eyes away from them, that I was
able to stick to my seat and hold on to the reins. On and on we dashed,
until trees, road, sky, universe were obliterated in one blinding
whirlwind that got up my nostrils, choked my ears, and deadened me to
everything, save the all-terrorizing, instinctive knowledge, that the
figures by my side, were still there, stalking along as quietly and
leisurely as if the horse had been going at a snail's pace.

At last, to my intense relief--for never had the ride seemed longer--I
reached the Crow's Nest, and as I hurriedly dismounted from the trap,
the figures shot past me and vanished. Once inside the house, and in the
bosom of my family, where all was light and laughter, courage returned,
and I upbraided myself bitterly for this cowardice.

I confessed to my wife, and she insisted on accompanying me the
following afternoon, at twilight, to the spot where the ghost appeared
to originate. To our intense dismay, we had not been there more than
three or four minutes, before Dora, our youngest girl, a pretty,
sweet-tempered child of eight, came running up to us with a telegram,
which one of the servants had asked her to give us. My wife, snatching
it from her, and reading it, was about to scold her severely, when she
suddenly paused, and clutching hold of the child with one hand, pointed
hysterically at something on one side of her with the other. I looked,
and Dora looked, and we both saw, standing erect and staring at us, the
spare figure of a man, with a ghastly white face and dull, lifeless
eyes, clad in a panama hat, albert coat, and small, patent-leather
boots; beside him were two glossy--abnormally glossy--poodles.

I tried to speak, but, as before, was too frightened to articulate a
sound, and my wife was in the same plight. With Dora, however, it was
otherwise, and she electrified us by going up to the figure, and
exclaiming:

"Who are you? You must feel very ill to look so white. Tell me your
name."

The figure made no reply, but gliding slowly forward, moved up to a
large, isolated oak, and pointing with the index finger of its left hand
at the trunk of the tree, seemingly sank