it. I waited in the hope of a touch to tell me that I might
return. Perhaps I was answered by indirect means? I only know
that a resolution to return to the same place, at the same hour,
came to me, and quieted my mind.

The morning of the next day was dull and cloudy; but the rain
held off. I set forth again to the Gardens.

My dog ran on before me into the street--and stopped: waiting to
see in which direction I might lead the way. When I turned toward
the Gardens, he dropped behind me. In a little while I looked
back. He was following me no longer; he stood irresolute. I
called to him. He advanced a few steps--hesitated--and ran back
to the house.

I went on by myself. Shall I confess my superstition? I thought
the dog's desertion of me a bad omen.

Arrived at the tree, I placed myself under it. The minutes
followed each other uneventfully. The cloudy sky darkened. The
dull surface of the grass showed no shuddering consciousness of
an unearthly creature passing over it.

I still waited, with an obstinacy which was fast becoming the
obstinacy of despair. How long an interval elapsed, while I kept
watch on the ground before me, I am not able to say. I only know
that a change came.

Under the dull gray light I saw the grass move--but not as it had
moved, on the day before. It shriveled as if a flame had scorched