the glowing wood embers of the great open stove
bricked into one side of the wall.

Five or six excited negroes were grouped in a circle about a woman with
a yellow turban on her head, who was rocking back and forth and shouting
at intervals:

"Oh-h, dere's sperrits in de air! I can smell um. I can smell um."

"Nancy!" called the Colonel sharply as we stepped into the room.

Nancy paused a moment and turned upon us a pair of frenzied eyes with
nothing much but the whites showing.

"Marse Cunnel, dere's sperrits in de air," she cried. "Sabe yuhself
while dere's time. We's all a-treadin' de road to destruction."

"You'll be treading the road to destruction in mighty short order if you
don't keep still," he returned grimly. "Now stop this foolishness and
tell me what's gone with that chicken."

After a great deal of questioning and patching together, we finally got
her story, but I cannot say that it threw much light upon the matter.
She had put the chicken in the oven, and then she felt powerful queer,
as if something were going to happen. Suddenly she felt a cold wind blow
through the room, the candles went out, and she could hear the rustle of
"ghostly gahments" sweeping past her. The oven door sprang open of its
own accord; she looked inside, and "dere wa'n't no chicken dere!"

Repeated questioning only brought out the same statement but with more
circumstantial details. The other negroes backed her up, and the story
grew rapidly in magnitude and horror. Nancy's seizures, it appeared,
were contagious, and the others by this time were almost as excited as
she. The only approximately calm one among them was Cat-Eye Mose who sat
in the doorway watching the scene with half furtive eyes and something
resembling a grin on his face.

The Colonel, observing that it was a good deal of commotion for the sake
of one small chicken, disgustedly dropped the inquiry. As we stepped out
into the gallery again, I glanced back at the dancing firelight, the
weird cross shadows, and the circle of dusky faces, with, I confess, a
somewhat creepy feeling. I could see that in such an atmosphere, it
would not take long for superstition to lay its hold on a man.

"What's the meaning of it?" I asked as we strolled slowly toward the
house.

"The meaning of it," Radnor shrugged, "is that some of them are lying.
The ha'nt, I could swear, has a good flesh and blood appetite. Nancy has
been frightened and she believes her own story. There'