"'Well,' said I at last, 'we can not wait here forever. If I am not greatly mistaken there will be a storm before night, and we had better get out of this at once. We can come down here some other day and renew our acquaintance with the mysterious child of the forest.' So back through the marsh we splashed our way, and arrived at Raven Hill barely in time to escape the storm, which broke with fury just as Uncle Ashby came around for our mud-bespattered steeds. "Elizabeth went upstairs to change her dress and rest before dinner, and I settled down in the library with the _Country Gentleman_. There was a knock at the door, and Uncle Ashby came in. "'Marse Livingstone,' he asked huskily, 'whar has you been wif de horses?' "I told him; and during the brief account of our adventures his face grew ashen and his eyes seemed about to start out of his head. When I was through he tottered over to the window, muttering, 'Gawd help us! Gawd help us!' "'What's the matter, Uncle Ashby?' I asked curiously. 'What on earth are you so excited about?' "'Boss,' said he entreatingly, 'doan' make me tell you--you'll be sorry ef you do. 'Deed, Marster, I really mus' go now, sah; dey's waitin' fer me at de stables. And youse been down dar an' seen it! Oh, Lordy, Lordy!' "'Come back here,' said I, my curiosity getting the better of me. 'Don't be a fool, old man; brace up. What's the trouble? You are not afraid to speak out, eh?' "'Well, Marse Livingstone, ef I mus' tell you, I 'spose I mus'--thar doan' 'pear to be no help fer it. But I'd ruther not, boss; 'deed, I'd ruther not.' "'Go on; tell your story,' said I impatiently. 'I guess I can stand it. Just try me, anyhow.' So in the semi-darkness a marvellous tale was unfolded to my ears. "In the first place, Uncle Ashby solemnly assured me that I had that day seen a ghost. The flesh-and-blood Ailsee, he declared, had been dead many years. Her father, Coot Harris, was a rough customer who took up his abode in the marsh--'mash,' Uncle Tucker called it--at the close of the Civil War. Here he gained a precarious livelihood by 'pot-hunting'; for Harris and others of his ilk paid but little attention to the poorly enforced game laws of the section. Coot Harris, the marshman, had a daughter, who, as Uncle Ashby contemptuously remarked, 'was peart enuff, as pore white trash folkses go.'