nd transient image of the life of the Pilgrim Fathers, who gave that
sacred name to the place of their chosen habitation. Whatever changes
civilization or time may bring about, the features of natural scenery
are, for the most part, unalterable. Massachusetts Bay is as it was when
the Pilgrim Fathers first beheld it. On land, there are still the
craggy hills, with jutting promontories of granite, where the barberries
grow, and room is found in the narrow valleys for small farms, and for
apple trees, and little slopes of grass, and patches of tillage where
all else looks barren.

The scenery is not more picturesque to-day, than on that chill autumnal
eve, when the strange horseman was urging his jaded steed along the path
which led to the village. His garments were travel-stained and his
features haggard.

Three hunters with guns on their shoulders were not half a mile in
advance of the horseman. They, too, evidently had passed a day of
arduous toil; for climbing New England hills in search of the wild deer
was no easy task.

They were men who had hardly reached middle age; but their grave
Puritanic demeanor made them look older than they were. Their
conversation was grave, gloomy and mysterious. There was little light or
frivolous about them, for to them life was sombre. The hunt was not
sport, but arduous toil, and their legs were so weary they could
scarcely drag themselves along.

"Now we may rejoice, John Bly, that home is within sight, for truly I am
tired, and I think I could not go much farther," one of the pedestrians
remarked to the man at his side.

"Right glad will I be when we are near!" answered the fatigued John
Bly. "This has been a hard day with fruitless result."

"We have had some fair shots to-day," put in a third man, who walked a
little behind the others.

"Verily, we have; yet what profits it to us, Samuel Gray, when our guns
fail to carry the ball to the place? I had as many fair shots to-day as
would bring down a dozen bucks, and yet I missed every time. You know
full well I am not one to miss."

"You are not, John Louder."

Then the three men looked mysteriously at each other. They were all
believers in supernatural agencies, and the fact that such a faultless
marksman should miss was enough to establish in their minds a belief
that other than natural causes were at work. There could be no other
reason given that John Louder should miss his mark, than that his gun
was "bewitched." It