The wind rattled the windows and made creepy, unpleasant noises in the trees outside. At long intervals it ventured down the chimney with sudden spurts and playfully blew the smoke out into the room, causing momentary discomfort to the eyes of all three of us. Then as quickly it would retire, giving a triumphant whistle as though it enjoyed the joke hugely. The soot would come tumbling down and envelop the flames in a cloud of black dust. A crackle, a splutter, and the logs blazed up as cheerily as ever.

I stretched my feet toward the fire and buried myself deeper in my great arm-chair. Flash, the setter, curled at my side, poking his nose between his fore-paws, fixed his earnest eyes on a tiny tongue of flame that was eating its way along a gnarled bit of hickory. Facing us, rocking slowly to and fro on two legs of his frail wooden chair, was Theophilus Winter, the lawyer and our companion on many a day’s hunt. This was to[170] Theophilus the acme of comfort, for he had a good cigar for an inspiration and the best of audiences, an intelligent dog and a tired man.

“Yes, as I was saying before that last gust interrupted us, I am not a superstitious man, but as long as no harm can come of it I prefer to plant my garden in the right sign. While I am not in the least superstitious I must confess some timidity on this one point—that is, as to passing the small log house that stands just at the foot of the ridge on the road to Kishikoquillas on the night of the twenty-ninth of December, or indeed almost any time after sunset. Not that I am afraid—far from it—but strange tales have been abroad for the last thirty years regarding the doings there after nightfall. They say that the sound of fiddles can be heard, the clanging of cow-bells and occasionally the dull report of a gun. This, the young folks declare, is the ghosts belling Joe Varner.

“Perhaps you have seen the house of which I have spoken. It stands in a little clearing, about fifty feet from the roadside. The great stone chimney is now almost completely demolished. The plaster daubing has fallen from the chinks between the logs, revealing to the passer-by the barren interior. The glass has been removed from the shattered windows to let the light into some more respectable dwelling. The weeds and briars grow rank over all. The place presented a far different[171] picture thirty years ago. Then all was scrupulously clean. Not a stone on the chimney top was out of place, not an iota of daubing had fallen away, nor was the smallest spot left unwhitewashed. Everywhere was the evidence of industry and thrift.

“For twenty years Joe Varner had lived his lonely life there, with no other companion than a mongrel dog. He was a strange man, tall and gaunt in appearance, taciturn and surly in manner, doing his bad deeds in public and his good ones in private, for his pride would not allow him to parade the latter before his neighbors. Yet with it all he was at heart a kindly old fellow who had simply been spoiled by his way of living. And why he had chosen this way was a puzzle to all our people. He was not a native of our county, but had simply appeared one day, bought this secluded plot, built his house and settled here. Twice, leaving no one behind him, he went away, remained a week and then as quietly returned to resume his lonely life. On each occasion his return was marked by a fit of melancholy which attracted the attention but repelled the curiosity of his nearest neighbors. That he had visited his old home in a distant county was all they could ever learn.

“Just thirty years ago this coming December, Varner left for the third time. A week passed, and he did not return. Two weeks went by, and[172] he was still absent. Strange rumors were abroad as to the cause of this unaccountable delay. When the third week had reached its end he came home, bringing with him a wizened little woman, with a hard face and of a most slovenly appearance. This person he introduced laconically, but with a very evident touch of pride, as his wife.

“Just who the woman was or where from no one knew and none dared ask, but the news of her arrival spread quickly. Here was an opportunity not to be lost—to bell old Joe and his mysterious bride. Never before had the valley made such preparations for a serenade. Full fifty men and boys met at my father’s barn on the night following the old man’s home-coming, and armed with old guns, fiddles, sleigh bells and horns we set out for the scene of our operations. It was a good two mile walk to the house on the ridge, and we reached it just as the full............