through the opaque white vapor. It was, however,
an accustomed medium to the young mountaineer, and his feet, too, had
something of that unclassified muscular instinct, apart from reason,
which guides in an oft-trodden path. Once he came to a halt, from no
uncertainty of locality, but to gaze apprehensively through the blank,
white mists over a shuddering shoulder. "I wonder ef thar be any other
harnts aloose ter-night, a-boguing through the fog an' the moon," he
speculated. Presently he went on again, shaking his head sagely. "I
ain't wantin' ter collogue with sech," he averred cautiously.

Occasionally the moonlight fell in expansive splendor through a rift in
the white vapor; amidst the silver glintings a vague, illusory panorama
of promontory and island, bay and inlet, far ripplings of gleaming
deeps, was presented like some magic reminiscence, some ethereal replica
of the past, the simulacrum of the seas of these ancient coves, long
since ebbed away and vanished. The sailing moon visibly rocked, as the
pulsing tides of the cloud-ocean rose and fell, and ever and anon this
supernal craft was whelmed in its surgings, and once more came
majestically into view, freighted with fancies and heading for the haven
of the purple western shores.

In one of these clearances of the mists a light of an alien type caught
the eye of the wandering spectre--a light, red, mundane, of prosaic
suggestion. It filtered through the crevice of a small batten shutter.

The ghost paused, his head speculatively askew. "Who sits so late at the
forge?" he marvelled, for he was now near the base of the mountain, and
he recognized the low, dark building looming through the mists, its roof
aslant, its chimney cold, the big doors closed, the shutter fast. As he
neared the place a sudden shrill guffaw smote the air, followed by a
deep, gruff tone of disconcerted remonstrance. Certain cabalistic words
made the matter plain.

"High, Low, Jack, _and_ game! Fork! Fork!" Once more there arose a high
falsetto shriek of jubilant laughter.

Walter Wyatt crept noiselessly down the steep slant toward the shutter.
He had no sense of intrusion, for he was often one of the merry blades
wont to congregate at the forge at night and take a hand at cards,
despite the adverse sentiment of the cove and the vigilance of the
constable of the district, bent on enforcing the laws prohibiting
gaming. As Wyatt stood at the crevice of the shutter the whole interior
was