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.

As the stranger came in sight of the Lane cabin, a young woman on
a brown pony rode out of the gate and up the trail before him; and
when the man reached the open ground on the mountain above, and
rounded the shoulder of the hill, he saw the pony, far ahead,
loping easily along the little path. A moment he watched, and
horse and rider passed from sight.

The clouds were drifting far away. The western sky was clear with
the sun still above the hills. In an old tree that leaned far out
over the valley, a crow shook the wet from his plumage and dried
himself in the warm light; while far below the mists rolled, and
on the surface of that gray sea, the traveler saw a company of
buzzards, wheeling and circling above some dead thing hidden in
its depth.

Wearily the man followed the Old Trail toward the Matthews place,
and always, as he went, in the edge of the gloomy forest, flitted
that shadowy form.