as fresh and damp, but not chill. We rode
slowly, of necessity, for the mud was deeper than ever.

I deliberated what course I should take, in order to draw from my guide
the explanation of the nightly noises. His evident shrinking, whenever
his wife referred to the subject, convinced me that a gradual approach
would render him shy and uneasy; and, on the whole, it seemed best to
surprise him by a sudden assault. Let me strike to the heart of the
secret, at once,--I thought,--and the details will come of themselves.

While I was thus reflecting, he rode quietly by my side. Half turning
in the saddle, I looked steadily at his face, and said, in an earnest
voice,--

"Eber Nicholson, who was it to whom you were married in the sight of
God?"

He started as if struck, looked at me imploringly, turned away his eyes,
then looked back, became very pale, and finally said, in a broken,
hesitating voice, as if the words were forced from him against his
will,--

"Her name is Rachel Emmons."

"Why did you murder her?" I asked, in a still sterner tone.

In an instant his face burned scarlet. He reined up his horse with a
violent pull, straightened his shoulders so that he appeared six inches
taller, looked steadily at me with a strange, mixed expression of anger
and astonishment, and cried out,--

"Murder her? _Why, she's livin' now!_"

My surprise at the answer was scarcely less great than his at the
question.

"You don't mean to say she's not dead?" I asked.

"Why, no!" said he, recovering from his sudden excitement, "she's not
dead, or she wouldn't keep on troublin' me. She's been livin' in Toledo,
these ten year."

"I beg your pardon, my friend," said I; "but I don't know what to think
of what I heard last night, and I suppose I have the old notion in my
head that all ghosts are of persons who have been murdered."

"Oh, if I had killed her," he groaned, "I'd 'a' been hung long ago, an'
there 'd 'a' been an end of it."

"Tell me the whole story," said I. "It's hardly likely that I can help
you, but I can understand how you must be troubled, and I'm sure I pity
you from my heart."

I think he felt relieved at my proposal,--glad, perhaps, after long
silence, to confide to another man the secret of his lonely, wretched
life.

"After what you've heerd," said he, "there's nothin' that I don't care
to tell. I've been sinful, no doubt,--but, God knows, there never was a
man worse punished.

"I told you," he contin