One night, as the two were walking, each caught a glimpse of something dark, which moved swiftly through the bushes some distance from the road.

The girl started.

“What is the matter?” Harlson said.

“Did you not see it—­that shadow in the bushes?”

“Yes.  Some one was there.  What of it?  Some of the boys are coon-hunting.”

“It wasn’t that,” she whispered.  “I know what it was.  It was Harrison Woodell, and he is watching.”

“Well, he might be in much better business.  Are you fond of him?”

“I like him very much,” she answered, simply, “but sometimes I am afraid.”

He laughed.

“He’ll not hurt you.  He dare not.”

“But he may hurt you.”

Another laugh.

“Don’t you think I can take care of myself?”

“Oh, yes”—­hurriedly—­“but one of you may get hurt, and I don’t want anything to happen to either of you.  Oh, Grant!  You must be careful!”

He was impressed, though he did not show it.  There may have been some of that magnetic connection, of which the scientists have told us so little, between minds tending toward each other, with sinister intent or otherwise, when all conditions are complete.  Harlson felt in his heart that the girl’s apprehensions were not altogether groundless, but, as was said, he was in perfect health and had a pride, and he cast away the thought and but made love.  And he prospered wickedly.  It was late when the girl reached her home again, and she went in tremblingly and silently.  So bent had been their footsteps that neither Harrison Woodell nor other living thing could have been near them and unseen.

Down the tree-fringed roadway and across the field to the barn went Harlson, and wondered somewhat at himself.  Into what had he developed, and how would it all end?  He was elated, but uneasy.  He was glad the fence was nearing completion, and that with the money due him life in the big city would begin.  He clambered upon the clover-mow, and tossed about uneasily on the blanket upon which he had thrown himself still dressed.  It was some time before he slept, and then odd dreams came.

He thought he had taken Jenny to the town, and that Mrs. Rolfston seemed always near them, yet in hiding.  They could not get away from her.  Then came a time when she had crept up behind them and over his head had thrown a noose, and was drawing it tighter and tighter and strangling him, and he could not, somehow, raise his hands to free himself.  He was suffocating!  He struggled in his agony and awoke—­awoke to find his dream no dream at all! to feel a hand on his throat, a knee upon his chest, and to know that he was being choked to death!

More than once in later life Grant Harlson felt himself very near the line which men who have crossed once may not repass, but never later came to him the feeling of this moment.  It was but a flash of thought, for the physical being’s upheaval followed in an instant, but it was a flash of horror.  Then began an awful struggle.