anion, took the
light and said to us:

"Come on," and we walked after him out into the limitless blackness,
nothing doubting. We went what seemed a long way, following this
brigand-looking stranger, without seeing any sign of life or hearing any
sound save the roar of wind and water, but on turning a fence corner, we
came in sight of a large two-story house, with a bright light streaming
out through many windows, and a wide open door. There was a large stone
barn on the other side of the road, and to this our conductor turned,
saying to us: "Go on to the house." This we did, and were met at the
open door by a middle-aged woman, shading with one hand the candle held
in the other. This threw a strong light on her face, which instantly
reminded me of an eagle. She wore a double-bordered white cap over her
black hair, and looked suspiciously at us through her small keen, black
eyes, but kindly bade us come in to a low wainscoted hall, with broad
stairway and many open doors. Through one of these and a second door we
saw a great fire of logs, and I should have liked to sit by it, but she
led us into a square wainscoted room on the opposite side, in which
blazed a coal fire almost as large as the log heap in the kitchen.

She gave us seats, and a white-haired man who sat in the corner, spoke
to us, and made me feel comfortable. Up to this time all the
surroundings had had an air of enchanted castles, brigands, ghosts,
witches. The alert woman with the eagle face, in spite of her kindness,
made me feel myself an object of doubtful character, but this old man
set me quite at ease. We were no more than well warmed when the wagon
drove to the door, and the boy-man with the lantern appeared, saying,

"Come on."

We followed him again, and he lifted us into the wagon, while the
mistress of the house stood on the large flag-stone door-step, shading
her candle-flame, and giving directions about our wraps.

"Coming events cast their shadows before," when they are between us and
the light; but that night the light must have been between them and me;
for I bade good-bye to our hostess without any premonition we should
ever again meet, or that I should sit alone, as I do to-night, over half
a century later, in that same old wainscoted room, listening to the roar
of those same angry waters and the rush of the wind wrestling with the
groaning trees, in the dense darkness of this low valley.

When we had been carefully bestowed in the