“That is twenty years ago, and I’ve not seen the phantom rider since.  Nor do I fancy he will appear again, for when I look into the eyes of the picture in the hall, they are no longer wandering, but at rest.”

* * * * *

Perhaps, one of the most interesting accounts of the phantasm of a horse in my possession is that recorded by C.E.  G——­, a friend of my boyhood.  Writing to me from the United States some months ago, he says: 

“Knowing how interested you are in all cases of hauntings, and in those relating to animal ghosts especially, I am sending you an account of an ‘experience’ that happened to my uncle, Mr. John Dale, about six months ago.  He was returning to his home in Bishopstone, near Helena, Montana, shortly after dark, and had arrived at a particularly lonely part of the road where the trees almost meet overhead, when his horse showed signs of restlessness.  It slackened down, halted, shivered, whinnied, and kept up such a series of antics, that my uncle descended from the trap to see if anything was wrong with it.  He thought that, perhaps, it was going to have some kind of fit, or an attack of ague, which is not an uncommon complaint among animals in his part of the country, and he was preparing to give it a dose of quinine, when suddenly it reared up violently, and before he could stop it, was careering along the road at lightning speed.  My uncle was now in a pretty mess.  He was stranded in a forest without a lantern, ten miles, at least, from home.  Feeling too depressed to do anything, he sat down by the roadside, and seriously thought of remaining there till daybreak.  A twinge of rheumatism, however, reminded him the ground was little warmer than ice, and made him realize that lying on it would be courting death.  Consequently, he got up, and setting his lips grimly, struck out in the direction of Bishopstone.  At every step he took the track grew darker.  Shadows of trees and countless other things, for which he could see no counterpart, crept out and rendered it almost impossible for him to tell where to tread.  A peculiar, indefinable dread also began to make itself felt, and the darkness seemed to him to assume an entirely new character.  He plodded on, breaking into a jog-trot every now and then, and whistling by way of companionship.  The stillness was sepulchral—­he strained his ears, but could not even catch the sound of those tiny animals that are usually heard in the thickets and furze-bushes at night; and all his movements were exaggerated, until their echoes seemed to reverberate through the whole forest.  A turn of the road brought him into view of something that made his heart throb with delight.  Standing by the wayside was an enormous coach with four huge horses pawing the ground impatiently.  My uncle rushed up to the driver, who was so enveloped in wraps, he could not see his face, and in a voice trembling with emotion begged for the favour of a lift—­if not