Without delay Ali Baba would rush to the barn and in magical order arrange a shining, old-style harness on an iron gray mare, hitch the same to an old-style, closed coupé padded with scarlet silk, shades of past glory! On the coupé door was a monogram—A. C., entwined with plumes and fleur-de-lis. Donning a black frock coat and silk hat, both slightly green when the sun met them unexpectedly, Ali Baba would mount the coach seat, and, with a grave “Come on, Melba,” to the mare, would cause her to stalk sedately out of the barn, down the gravel path to the side porch where the carved door would open and a peculiar little person, seemingly very old, would step outside. She would be dressed in a long out-of-date black coat and a round, felt hat fastened under her chin by an elastic. Her shoes would be rough and shabby, and her gray hair betray itself as fastened in an unbecoming “button” under her hat. As she would put one hand on the coupé door, it would show itself to be yellowed and feeble. She never wore gloves, but the most beautiful rings in the world sparkled innocently on the small fingers, pigeon blood rubies, white water diamonds, a black pearl, emeralds and sapphires, and on her thumb was a great cameo ring held in place by a jewelled guard. Around this small person’s neck would be a thick, old-style braided watch chain, at the end of which dangled glassless, gold lorgnettes which she never used. As she lifted her face to Ali Baba’s respectfully inclining ear to say the same phrase she had said for thirty-five years—“An hour’s drive, Ali Baba, not too fast,”—one could see that she had dark, restless eyes and a thin, sharp face, a flexible mouth drawn into a melancholy expression and a bulging forehead bespeaking more brains than are usual. The coupé door would close and down would come the faded scarlet curtains. Ali Baba, laying the whip a full eight inches above Melba’s iron-gray back, would then effect a triumphant exit out of the driveway. So it was that Miss Clergy, sole occupant of the ghost village, drove at four each day of the year, rain or shine, save when the snow piled too high to let the old-fashioned sledge proceed. “An hour’s drive, Ali Baba, not too fast” had become a village slogan. No one ever questioned Ali Baba concerning Miss Clergy, or commented on the appearance of the coupé with its white-haired driver and curtained occupant, until, in the year nineteen hundred and twelve, something else _very_ thrilling happened in Birge’s Corners, something which made Abigail Clergy’s love tragedy seem remote, scarcely worth remembering.