There was a hint of impatience now in the deep voice.  “No, I told you that I had never been in these mountains before.  Will Mr. Matthews keep me, do you think?”

Jed, who was still looking up the trail, suddenly leaned forward, and, pointing into the timber to the left of the path, said in an exciting whisper, “Look at that, Mister; yonder thar by that big rock.”

The stranger, looking, thought he saw a form, weird and ghost-like in the mist, flitting from tree to tree, but, even as he looked, it vanished among the hundreds of fantastic shapes in the gray forest.  “What is it?” he asked.

The native shook his head.  “Durned if I know, Mister.  You can’t tell.  There’s mighty strange things stirrin’ on this here mountain, an’ in the Holler down yonder.  Say, Mister, did you ever see a hant?”

The gentleman did not understand.

“A hant, a ghost, some calls ’em,” explained Jed.  “Bud Wilson he sure seed old Matt’s—­”

The other interrupted.  “Really, young man, I must go.  It is already late, and you know I have yet to find a place to stay for the night.”

“Law, that’s alright, Mister!” replied Jed.  “Ain’t no call t’ worry.  Stay anywhere.  Whar do you live when you’re to home?”

Again Jed’s question was ignored.  “You think then that Mr. Matthews will keep me?”

“Law, yes!  They’ll take anybody in.  I know they’re to home ’cause they was a fixin’ t’ leave the mill when I left ’bout an hour ago.  Was the river up much when you come acrost?” As the native spoke he was still peering uneasily into the woods.

“I did not cross the river.  How far is it to this Matthews place, and how do I go?”

“Jest foller this Old Trail.  Hit’ll take you right thar.  Good road all th’ way.  ’Bout three mile, I’d say.  Did you come from Springfield or St. Louis, maybe?”

The man lifted his satchel from the rock as he answered:  “No, I do not live in either Springfield or St. Louis.  Thank you, very much, for your assistance.  I will go on, now, for I must hurry, or night will overtake me, and I shall not be able to find the path.”

“Oh, hit’s a heap lighter when you git up on th’ hill ‘bove th’ fog,” said Jed, lowering his leg from the horse’s neck, and settling the meal sack, preparatory to moving.  “But I’d a heap rather hit was you than me a goin’ up on Dewey t’night.”  He was still looking up the trail.  “Reckon you must be from Kansas City or Chicago?  I heard tell they’re mighty big towns.”

The stranger’s only answer was a curt “Good-by,” as his form vanished in the mist.

Jed turned and dug his heels vigorously in the old mare’s flanks, as he ejaculated softly, “Well, I’ll be dod durned!  Must be from New York, sure!”

Slowly the old man toiled up the mountain; up from the mists of the lower ground to the ridge above; and, as he climbed, unseen by him, a shadowy form flitted from tree to tree in the dim, dripping forest.