The ladder was early missed; indeed it was the next morning that old Corbin puffed and pushed through the laurel to the bare space where his handiwork had been wont to lie and to grow apace, rung by rung. He did not at first notice its absence. He put his box of tools on the ground. Then he sat down on a rock and mopped his brow with his red bandana handkerchief and gazed meditatively down the vistas of the woods. The Indian summer was abroad in the land, suffusing it with languor and light—a subtly tempered radiance; with embellishments of color, soft and brilliant; with fine illusions of purpling haze; with a pensive joy in sheer existence. How gracious it was to breathe such air, such aromatic perfumes; to hear such melodic sounds faintly piped with the wind among the boughs. Ah, summer, not going, surely! for despite the sere leaf one must believe it had barely come. They were not poetic lungs which Mr. Corbin wore, encased in much fat, but they expanded to the exquisite aroma of the morning as amply as if they differentiated and definitely appreciated it. He drew several long luxurious sighs, and then it seemed as if he would breathe no more. He gasped; turned red; his eyes started from his head. He had taken notice at last that the ladder had been removed. He arose tremulously and approached the spot where it usually lay. There was no trace of it. He staggered a few steps backward in dismayed recoil. His spectacles fell to the ground, the lenses shattering on the stones. “Witches!” he spluttered. “Witches!” He cast one terrified appealing look at the solitudes about him, half-fearing to see the mystic beings that his superstition deemed lurking there; then he began to waddle—for he could hardly be said to run—as fast as he could go along the path through the laurel.