Julius jerked the reins and applied the whip lightly, but the mare did not stir.

“Perhaps you had better get down and lead her,” I suggested.  “If you get her started, you can cross on the log and keep your feet dry.”

Julius alighted, took hold of the bridle, and vainly essayed to make the mare move.  She planted her feet with even more evident obstinacy.

“I don’t know what to make of this,” I said.  “I have never known her to balk before.  Have you, Julius?”

“No, suh,” replied the old man, “I neber has.  It’s a cu’ous thing ter me, suh.”

“What’s the best way to make her go?”

“I ’spec’s, suh, dat ef I’d tu’n her ‘roun’, she’d go de udder way.”

“But we want her to go this way.”

“Well, suh, I ‘low ef we des set heah fo’ er fibe minutes, she’ll sta’t up by herse’f.”

“All right,” I rejoined; “it is cooler here than any place I have struck today.  We’ll let her stand for a while, and see what she does.”

We had sat in silence for a few minutes, when Julius suddenly ejaculated, “Uh huh!  I knows w’y dis mare doan go.  It des flash’ ’cross my recommemb’ance.”

“Why is it, Julius?” I inquired.

“’Ca’se she sees Chloe.”

“Where is Chloe?” I demanded.

“Chloe’s done be’n dead dese fo’ty years er mo’,” the old man returned.  “Her ha’nt is settin’ ober yander on de udder side er de branch, unner dat wilier-tree, dis blessed minute.”

“Why, Julius!” said my wife, “do you see the haunt?”

“No’m,” he answered, shaking his head, “I doan see ’er, but de mare sees ’er.”

“How do you know?” I inquired.

“Well, suh, dis yer is a gray hoss, en dis yer is a Friday; en a gray hoss kin alluz see a ha’nt w’at walks on Friday.”

“Who was Chloe?” said Mabel.

“And why does Chloe’s haunt walk?” asked my wife.

“It’s all in de tale, ma’m,” Julius replied, with a deep sigh.  “It’s all in de tale.”

“Tell us the tale,” I said.  “Perhaps, by the time you get through, the haunt will go away and the mare will cross.”

I was willing to humor the old man’s fancy.  He had not told us a story for some time; and the dark and solemn swamp around us; the amber-colored stream flowing silently and sluggishly at our feet, like the waters of Lethe; the heavy, aromatic scent of the bays, faintly suggestive of funeral wreaths, all made the place an ideal one for a ghost story.

“Chloe,” Julius began in a subdued tone, “use’ ter b’long ter ole Mars’ Dugal’ McAdoo,—­my ole marster.  She wuz a lackly gal en a smart gal, en ole mis’ tuk her up ter de big house, en l’arnt her ter wait on de w’ite folks, ’tel bimeby she come ter be mis’s own maid, en ’peared ter ’low she run de house herse’f, ter heah her talk erbout it.  I wuz a young boy den, en use’ ter wuk ‘bout de stables, so I knowed eve’ythin’ dat wuz gwine on ‘roun’ de plantation.