The wild-geese were a-wing on the way southward. Looking up to that narrow section of the blue sky which the incision of the gorge into the very depths of the woods made visible, he could see the tiny files deploying along the azure or the flecking cirrus, and hear the vague clangor of their leader’s cry. He lifted his head to mechanically follow their flight. Then, as his eyes came back to earth, they rested again on the old bridge. “Strange enough,” he said, suddenly, “the sker-riest tale I hev ever hearn ‘bout that thar old bredge is one that my niece set a-goin’. She _seen_ the harnt _herself_, an’ it shakes me wuss ‘n the idee o’ all the rest.” His companion’s gloomy gaze was lifted for a moment with an expression of inquiry from the slowly widening circles of the water about the horse’s head as he drank. But Roxby’s eyes, with a certain gleam of excitement, a superstitious dilation, still dwelt upon the bridge at the end of the upward vista. He went on merely from the impetus of the subject. “Yes, sir--she _seen_ it a-pacin’ of its sorrowful way acrost that bredge, same ez the t’others of the percession o’ harnts. ‘Twar my niece, Mill’cent--brother’s darter--by name, Mill’cent Roxby. Waal, Mill’cent an’ a lot o’ young fools o’ her age--little over fryin’ size--they ‘tended camp-meetin’ down hyar on Tomahawk Creek--‘tain’t so long ago--along with the old folks. An’ ‘bout twenty went huddled up tergether in a road-wagin. An’, lo! the wagin it bruk down on the way home, an’ what with proppin’ it up on a crotch, they made out ter reach the cross-roads over yander at the Notch, an’ thar the sober old folks called a halt, an’ hed the wagin mended at the blacksmith-shop. Waal, it tuk some two hours, fur Pete Rodd ain’t a-goin’ ter hurry hisself--in my opinion the angel Gabriel will hev ter blow his bugle oftener’n wunst at the last day ‘fore Pete Rodd makes up his mind ter rise from the dead an’ answer the roll-call--an’ this hyar young lot sorter found it tiresome waitin’ on thar elders’ solemn company. The old folks, whilst waitin’, set outside on the porches of the houses at the settlemint, an’ repeated some o’ the sermons they hed hearn at camp, an’ more’n one raised a hyme chune. An’ the young fry--they hed hed a steady diet o’ sermons an’ hyme chunes fur fower days--they tuk ter stragglin’ off down the road, two an’ two, like the same sorter id jits the world over, leavin’ word with the old folks that the wagin would overtake ‘em an’ pick ‘em up on the road when it passed. Waal, they walked several mile, an’ time they got ter the crest o’ the hill over yander the moon hed riz, an’ they could look down an’ see the mist in the valley. The moon war bright in the buryin’-groun’ when they passed it, an’ the head-boards stood up white an’ stiff, an’ a light frost hed fell on the mounds, an’ they showed plain, an’ shone sorter lonesome an’ cold. The young folks begun ter look behind em’ fur the wagin. Some said--I