e point into a wooded hill, which formed no inconsiderable
feature in the landscape. Striking off the main road, at a point about
half-a-mile distant, was a rough by-road, which crossed near the summit
of the hill, and wound upwards till it disappeared in a ridge of still
loftier mountains. This road formed a favourite walk with the young
people of the village. It was rough, and shaded, and retired, and led to
many a green spot and glorious upland. On very dark nights, however, it
was usually avoided. A considerable part of it was over-arched with
thick foliage; and however pleasant at noonday, when the hot breezes
came panting thither for relief, it needed rather a stout heart to pass
whistling through it, when not even a gleam of starlight was visible,
and when every sound of the rustling branches came to the ear of the
listener, as a groan, a shriek, or a wailing.

It was towards this road, on the morning succeeding the ominous
appearances we have described, that many of the villagers directed their
steps. A good number were hastening thither soon after daybreak, and one
and all seemed bent on the same errand. They entered the road, now
chequered with the wakening glints of the sun, and proceeded onwards
till they came to a break in the rough wall, which bounded it on either
side. They here struck off, and followed the windings of a narrow
footpath, till they reached an open place which looked into the fields
beyond. There was a bush of underwood a good deal dashed and torn; and
those who had a better eyesight, or a more active fancy than the rest,
declared they could trace the sprinklings of blood upon the grass. On
that spot, not many hours before, a murder had been committed. A young
woman, one of the loveliest and liveliest of the village, had been
desperately and cruelly murdered.

The affair was involved in mystery.

Jessie Renton, the deceased, was the daughter of respectable parents in
the village, and a favourite with young and old. She was warm-hearted
and playful; and, pass her when you might, she always greeted you with
a kind glance or a merry word. On the evening which closed on her for
ever, she had gone out alone, as she had done a thousand times before,
with a laughing eye and a light step. Her father had not returned from
his daily toil, and her mother had not ceased from hers. The latter was
busy at her wheel when Jessie left, and not a parting word was exchanged
between them. They knew not that