anks of the Black
River to where it broadened into the Black Lake, from whose dark borders
arose the sombre wood that shadowed the mountain's side, and from whose
obscure depths loomed up the gloomy structure now known as Black Hall,
the deserted home of the haughty Berners, the haunted and accursed
mansion.

Here, on the murky borders of the lake, the visitors would draw up their
carriages, to sit and gaze upon the fatal edifice, and listen to the
story of that awful Hallow Eve, when the fiery-hearted young wife was
driven by jealousy to desperation, and her fair young rival was murdered
in her chamber.

"And on every Hallow Eve," their informant would continue--"on every
Hallow Eve, at midnight deep, the spirit of the murdered guest might be
seen flying through the house pursued by the spirit of the vengeful
wife."

Visitors never penetrated into the wood that surrounded and nearly
concealed the mansion, much less ventured near that mansion itself.

The place was guarded by three old women, they were told, weird as
Macbeth's witches, and who discouraged all approach to their abode.

So solitary and deserted were the house and its inmates, that every path
leading through the forest towards its doors was overgrown and
obliterated, except one--a little narrow bridle-path leading from the
house through the woods, and out upon the Blackville road. This was kept
open by the weekly rides of old Joe, who went every Saturday to the
village to lay in the groceries for the use of the family; by the three
old women, who, seated on their safe old horses, went in solemn
procession every Sunday to church; by the young Cromartie, who came
trotting on his fiery steed once a month to visit his old friends; and
by old lawyer Closeby, who came ambling on his sedate cob every
quarter-day to inspect the premises and pay the people.

No other passengers but these ever disturbed the stillness of the forest
path; no other forms than these ever darkened the doors of Black Hall. A
gloomy place to live in! gloomy enough for the three quiet old
women--too gloomy for the bright young girl who was growing up to
womanhood under its shadows.

And never was the place darker, drearier, or more depressing in its
aspect than on a certain Hallow Eve, some fifteen years or more after
the disappearance of Sybil Berners and the self-expatriation of her
devoted friends.

All day long the sky had been overcast by low, dark leaden-hued clouds;
the ra