“The Dedham woods used to be a lonely place. It is mostly farms now. They stretched then away toward the coast. There were no towns like Hyde Park then; no Ponkapoag with villas; no costly summer homes. “The sunlit spaces between the trees were full of bluejays, that would eye the coach with outstretched necks. I can seem to see them now. “The Indian-pipe used to grow by the wayside, and back of it wild roses and green brakes and clematis, which bloomed and feathered late. The horses liked to slack up in summer, and walk under the cool shadows of the trees. “Oh, those were lonely roads in winter. The winds used to whistle like this—woo-oo-oo. Just as though they were spinning—woo-oo-oo. They seemed to catch the spirit of the sea, which was not many miles away—woo-oo-oo; like that. “People began to move away to York State. They called it up ‘country’ then. The Mohawk valley seemed as far away at that time as the prairies do now. “I had a good offer to go to Albany and take a stage-route from there to Buffalo. I caught the up ‘country’ fever, and resolved to go. “I may seem weak, but one of my greatest regrets on parting was that I would have to leave my old friend Silas, and I might never see him again. “One day as I was stopping at the old Scituate inn, just before setting out for Albany, I met a stranger there. He called himself Searle. I shall never forget the eyes of that man. There seemed to be a hidden spirit, not himself, looking through them. They reminded me at once of the travelling window and light, or the Phantom inn. “But Silas, the dog—I never met such a mystery as when the dog’s eyes first met those of that man. It used to be said in old New England times that dogs would see ghosts coming, and start up and howl, before people could see them. That dog seemed to see something mysterious in that man’s eyes. “He leaped into the air when Searle appeared, and said ‘Silas.’ He then shook all over, dropped on his feet, and ran around me, whining in a fearful tone. What did it mean? I have thought of it an hundred times—what did it mean? “‘Goin’ up country, I hear,’ said Searle. “‘Yes, I have concluded to take the Albany route,’ said I. ‘There is more money in it.’ “‘Goin’ to take your dog here along with you? He’s a fine one.’ “‘No,’ said I; ‘I’ll have to go by the way of New York, and up the river to Albany, and I must leave him behind. If I were going by the way of Springfield I would take him along. I set a store by that dog.’ “‘Don’t want to sell him, do ye?’ “There came a strange light into the man’s eyes. I cannot describe it. It made me think of the travelling window in the woods again. “I hesitated. “‘Stranger,’ said I at last, ‘where do you live?’