that queer things happened down there, and
that he had seen a ghost. Mr. Kennedy, his employer, laughed at him and
dismissed the matter from his mind. Some time after this Mr. Kennedy had
occasion to ride through the woods to look after some sheep, there being
but one road and the water on either side. As he approached the point
his horse started violently and refused to go on, regardless of whip or
spur. Glancing about for the cause of this unnatural fright, he saw a
woman rise up from a log, a few yards in advance, and stand by the
roadside, looking at him. She was very poorly clad in a faded calico
dress, and wore a limp sun-bonnet, from beneath which her thin,
jet-black hair straggled down on her shoulders; her face was thin and
sallow and her eyes black and piercing. Knowing that she had no business
there, and occupied in controlling his horse, he called to her somewhat
angrily to get out of the way, as his animal was afraid of her. Slowly
she turned and walked into the thicket, uttering not a syllable and
looking reproachfully at him as she went. With much difficulty he forced
his horse to the spot, hoping to find out who the strange intruder might
be, but the most careful search failed to reveal the trace of any one,
although there was no place of concealment and no possible way of
escape, for which, indeed, there was not sufficient time.

AN APPARITION AND DEATH

The old family seat of the T.'s, one of the most prominent names in the
community, is not far from the scenes of the above-mentioned adventure.
In all this region of lovely situations and charming water views, its
site is one of the most beautiful. The brick mansion, with all the
strangely mixed comforts and discomforts of ancient architecture, rears
its roof up from an elevated lawn, while the silvery thread of a
land-locked stream winds nearly around the whole. Over the further bank
dance the sparkling waters of a broad estuary, flashing in the glance of
the sunshine or tossing its white-capped billows in angry mimicry of the
sea. The gleam of white sails is never lacking to add variety and
picturesqueness to the scene. In the dead, hushed calm of a summer
evening, when the lifted oar rests on the gunwale, unwilling to disturb
with its dip the glassy surface, one has a strange, dreamy sense of
being suspended in space, the sky, in all its changing beauties, being
accurately reflected in illimitable depth by the still water, until the
charm is brok