It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house on Kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from the village of this name.  His little mare was fast bringing him up with a man on horseback who trotted through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded to the toll-gatherer and kept on towards the village.  Dominicus was acquainted with the toll-man, and while making change the usual remarks on the weather passed between them.

“I suppose,” said the pedler, throwing back his whiplash to bring it down like a feather on the mare’s flank, “you have not seen anything of old Mr. Higginbotham within a day or two?”

“Yes,” answered the toll-gatherer; “he passed the gate just before you drove up, and yonder he rides now, if you can see him through the dusk.  He’s been to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff’s sale there.  The old man generally shakes hands and has a little chat with me, but to-night he nodded, as if to say, ‘Charge my toll,’ and jogged on; for, wherever he goes, he must always be at home by eight o’clock.”

“So they tell me,” said Dominicus.

“I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squire does,” continued the toll-gatherer.  “Says I to myself tonight, ’He’s more like a ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and blood.’”

The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, and could just discern the horseman now far ahead on the village road.  He seemed to recognize the rear of Mr. Higginbotham, but through the evening shadows and amid the dust from the horse’s feet the figure appeared dim and unsubstantial, as if the shape of the mysterious old man were faintly moulded of darkness and gray light.

Dominicus shivered.  “Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other world by way of the Kimballton turnpike,” thought he.  He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about the same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow till the latter was concealed by a bend of the road.  On reaching this point the pedler no longer saw the man on horseback, but found himself at the head of the village street, not far from a number of stores and two taverns clustered round the meeting-house steeple.  On his left was a stone wall and a gate, the boundary of a wood-lot beyond which lay an orchard, farther still a mowing-field, and last of all a house.  These were the premises of Mr. Higginbotham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been left in the background by the Kimballton turnpike.

Dominicus knew the place, and the little mare stopped short by instinct, for he was not conscious of tightening the reins.  “For the soul of me, I cannot get by this gate!” said he, trembling.  “I never shall be my own man again till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree.”  He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round the gate-post, and ran along the green path of the wood-lot as if Old Nick were chasing behind.  Just then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep stroke fell Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of the orchard, he saw the fated pear tree.  One great branch stretched from the old contorted trunk across the path and threw the darkest shadow on that one spot.  But something seemed to struggle beneath the branch.