“No, no,—­none o’ that!” said he, as I was taking out my porte-monnaie; “you’ve done me a mighty sight more good than I’ve done you, let alone payin’ me to boot.  Don’t forgit the turn to the left, after crossin’ Jackson’s Run.  Good-bye, stranger!  Take good keer o’ yourself!”

And with a strong, clinging, lingering grasp of the hand, in which the poor fellow expressed the gratitude which he was too shy and awkward to put into words, we parted.  He turned his horse’s head, and slowly plodded back through the mud towards the lonely shanty.

On my way to Bloomington, I went over and over the man’s story, in memory.  The facts were tolerably clear and coherent:  his narrative was simple and credible enough, after my own personal experience of the mysterious noises, and the secret, whatever it was, must be sought for in Rachel Emmons.  She was still living in Toledo, Ohio, he said, and earned her living as a seamstress; it would, therefore, not be difficult to find her.  I confess, after his own unsatisfactory interview, I had little hope of penetrating her singular reserve; but I felt the strongest desire to see her, at least, and thus test the complete reality of a story which surpassed the wildest fiction.  After visiting Terre Haute, the next point to which business called me, on the homeward route, was Cleveland; and by giving an additional day to the journey, I could easily take Toledo on my way.  Between memory and expectation the time passed rapidly, and a week later I registered my name at the Island House, Toledo.

After wandering about for an hour or two, the next morning, I finally discovered the residence of Rachel Emmons.  It was a small story-and-a-half frame building, on the western edge of the town, with a locust-tree in front, two lilacs inside the paling, and a wilderness of cabbage-stalks and currant-bushes in the rear.  After much cogitation, I had not been able to decide upon any plan of action, and the interval between my knock and the opening of the door was one of considerable embarrassment to me.  A small, plumpish woman of forty, with peaked nose, black eyes, and but two upper teeth, confronted me.  She, certainly, was not the one I sought.

“Is your name Rachel Emmons?” I asked, nevertheless.

“No, I’m not her.  This is her house, though.”

“Will you tell her a gentleman wants to see her?” said I, putting my foot inside the door as I spoke.  The room, I saw, was plainly, but neatly furnished.  A rag-carpet covered the floor; green rush-bottomed chairs, a settee with chintz cover, and a straight-backed rocking-chair were distributed around the walls; and for ornament there was an alphabetical sampler in a frame, over the low wooden mantel-piece.

The woman, however, still held the door-knob in her hand, saying, “Miss Emmons is busy.  She can’t well leave her work.  Did you want some sewin’ done?”

“No,” said I; “I wish to speak with her.  It’s on private and particular business.”