An uncomprehended sensation, of which Rathburn nevertheless was aware, swept through the circle. He felt a vague surprise to see Marcella start up in the dusky red glow of the dwindling fire, and sink back uncertain, with a pallid, distraught face. In the puckers of Mrs. Strobe’s wizened little countenance, dimly white in the gloom, his transitory glance detected a strange embarrassment and discomfort. Isabel had roused herself, and was peering at him from her lowly seat. His host’s head was bent toward him, the long neck outstretched, his tangled locks and beard hanging forward, as he stared in the utmost amazement. “Ye never seen Teck Jepson to-night at the forge, young man.” “But I did,” protested Rathburn. “That was what Clem Sanders called him,—a tall, powerfully built man.” “Light-complected?” asked Strobe. “As a girl,—and he has blue eyes, and very dark hair and beard, and is slow stepping, and solemn spoken.” Eli Strobe had thrown himself back in his chair. The deep bass rumble of his laughter sounded a trifle muffled. He was laughing to himself. “Ye never seen Teck Jepson.” A crash, and the women cried out, startled; but it was only the breaking of the logs, long delayed, and the chunks falling, some within and some beyond the andirons, were sending up streams of white flame. Rathburn turned instantly back to see the constable lying at ease in his chair, the laughter fading from his face as he reiterated, “Ye never seen Teck Jepson.” He pulled himself forward, and leaning over laid his hand on the guest’s knee; looking into Rathburn’s face, he said significantly, “He’s dead!” Rathburn sat silent for a moment, as if doubting his senses, “I saw him, he spoke to me, not half an hour ago,” he insisted. “Ye never seen him.” Eli Strobe shook his head, with its long, melancholy locks, slowly from side to side. “Ye never seen him. Ye seen his harnt. He hev sot out ter walk. I seen his harnt wunst, myself. He’s dead!”