Michael was nearer right than he generally had the good fortune to be, when he described the Hemlock Hollow road as a wild and lonesome one. It was an unfrequented wood road; the trees met above it; there was neither foot-path nor fence on either side; it was just a way hewn down and cleared for one wagon to pass. Lying in a hollow, it was always damper, and colder, and darker, than anywhere else, and as I pressed on, I couldn't help being struck with the chilliness of the air, and "the rich moist smell of the rotting leaves" that lay thick upon the road. How fast the light had faded! I never knew twilight to come on so rapidly. "Never mind," I reasoned, "it cannot be long before we are out of this hollow, and then we shall be so near the village that I shall not mind the dark, and after that Mr. Rutledge will be with us. He will not be angry, I know; there was too much laughing about his mouth, when he motioned me homeward. I am sure he won't be angry; but I almost wish----Michael!" "Yes, Miss," called out my attendant in the distance. "How long before we are out of this wood?" "I don't rightly remember the length of it, Miss," gasped the panting esquire, as he reached me. "Well," I said, "it's growing dark so fast, you must whip up, and make all the haste you can." "Saving your presence, that's exactly what I've been doing for the last three hours; and though I'm as anxious to get on as yourself, Miss, my horse is just a bit _exhausted._" I had to suppress a laugh at his dejected looks. Melancholy had marked for her own both horse and rider. "Well, Michael," I said, encouragingly, "it cannot be very long before we reach the village, and then you shall have time to rest. Keep up as well as you can, meantime." And unable to control my own impatience, I rode on, and in a little while was again out of sight, or rather out of hearing, for sight was fast becoming a useless gift, so rapidly had night descended, and so effectually did the thick trees shut out what of light might have been still left in the sky. I again called to Michael, who again was far behind, and again had to be waited for. I was certain we had gone three or four miles, and yet there was no sign of an opening, no change in the monotonous, narrow road. "Are you quite positive, Michael," I said, "that this is the right road? Are you certain it leads to the village?" He had never been over it but once, he said, and that was two years ago, but he thought he knew it; it didn't seem so long to him before, though, he must confess. A genuine pang of fear crossed me as I saw the man's bewilderment and uncertainty, and as I realized that I must depend on myself, for he knew no more about the road than I did, it was plain, and seemed, indeed, fast losing his wits, from sheer fatigue and terror. "Think a minute, Michael," I said, in a firm voice, "how ought the road to terminate? Does it come directly out on the turnpike, or do we have to cross any fields before we reach it?"