head, and listened attentively. No chirp
of half-awakened bird, no tapping of wood-pecker or the mysterious
death-watch; but from far along the dewy aisles of the forest, the
ungrateful Spot that Clarsie had fed more faithfully than herself,
lifted up her voice, and set the echoes vibrating. Clarsie, however,
had hardly time for a pang of disappointment.

While she still knelt among the azaleas, her large deer-like eyes were
suddenly dilated with terror. From around the curve of the road came
the quick beat of hastening footsteps, the sobbing sound of panting
breath, and between her and the sinking moon there passed an
attenuated one-armed figure, with a pallid sharpened face, outlined
for a moment on its brilliant disk, and dreadful starting eyes, and
quivering open mouth. It disappeared in an instant among the shadows
of the laurel, and Clarsie, with a horrible fear clutching at her
heart, sprang to her feet. . . . the ghost stood before her. She could
not nerve herself to run past him, and he was directly in her way
homeward.

. . . . . . . . .

"Ye do ez ye air bid, or it'll be the worse for ye," said the "harnt"
in a quivering shrill tone. "Thar's hunger in the nex' worl' ez well
ez in this, an' ye bring me some vittles hyar this time ter-morrer,
an' don't ye tell nobody ye hev seen me, nuther, or it'll be the worse
for ye." . . .

The next morning, before the moon sank, Clarsie, with a tin pail in
her hand, went to meet the ghost at the appointed place. . . . . .
Morning was close at hand. . . . . . the leaves fell into abrupt
commotion, and he was standing in the road, beside her. He did not
speak, but watched her with an eager, questioning intentness, as she
placed the contents of the pail upon the moss at the roadside. "I'm
a-comin' agin ter-morrer," she said, gently. . . . Then she slowly
walked along her misty way in the dim light of the coming dawn. There
was a footstep in the road behind her; she thought it was the ghost
once more. She turned, and met Simon Burney, face to face. His rod was
on his shoulder, and a string of fish was in his hand.

"Ye air a-doin' wrongful, Clarsie," he said sternly. "It air agin the
law fur folks ter feed an' shelter them ez is a-runnin' from jestice.
An' ye'll git yerself inter trouble. Other folks will find ye out,
besides me, an' then the sheriff 'll be up hyar arter ye."

The tears rose to Clarsie's eyes. This prospect was infinitely more
terrifying than the awful