The doctor came and declared that life had
been for many hours extinct; putting aside
John's evidence to the contrary as a delusion
of the senses. The woman might have died
of hunger and exhaustion before she was
buried in the snow. He could not tell. There
was a wedding-ring upon her finger, and the
child, which, as it seemed to him, had expired
several hours later than its mother, was of
about seven months old. The rags that
covered them had been good clothing once.
In the hope that somebody would recognise
this woman, she lay with her child during a
whole week at the inn; and the Charles in
the Oak itself, by the desire of its landlady
(who would hear nothing about parishes)
gave her decent burial.

A week afterwards, a young man came to
the neighbourhood, obtained leave to have the
grave opened, and was distracted when he
looked inside the coffin. He said she was his
dearest sister; his bright Phoebe: that she
had gone away with a bad husband, who had
ill-used and deserted her; that he had lost
trace of them till he heard that she had set
out from a distant place to seek him in some
town in this direction; and when upon this
followed news of the bodies of a woman and
an infant having been found here, he came at
once. This man, though he looked poor
enough, (and was indeed a yeoman of small
means, named Thomas Halston) paid all the
expenses incurred by the host of the Charles
in the Oak on account of his dead sister,
and gave Dowsie John ten shillings, as
insane an act in poor John's eyes as the free gift
of a million would seem to you or to me, if
suddenly made to us by some chance capitalist.

"I shall face the villain yet," said Halston,
as he galloped out of the inn-yard.

"I would not be in his shoes if you do,"
muttered the ostler.

"I would not be in his shoes if you don't,"
said Dowsie John. "I wouldn't go out of
the world like him, with such a score chalked
up behind my door, and never have met with
a man willing to rub it off for me before I
went."

Two months afterwards, at about ten
o'clock on one of the last nights of February
—it was a dull night, with mizzling rain, that
had accompanied a rapid thaw, and the Charles
in the Oak was gone to bed for very dreariness—
John Pearmaine, before retiring to his
cupboard, was at work over his last purchase
of a halfpennyworth of new ballads by the
kitchen fire. Intent upon The Soldier Tired,
he did not notice any sound outside until he
heard a shot. It came from the road, but
was not very near. He was on his feet
instantly, and made all haste to the front door;
but, after the first bound into the entrance-
hall, he stopped. Across the threshold, just
as it had been on that night in December,
lay—or seemed to lie—his mattress, with
dead Phoebe and her infant stretched upon it.
The white snow gleamed among the folds of
the dress. All was as it had been once before,
except that the dead face, rigid and white,
with the eyes closed, was turned towards
John, and one hand was lifted from the baby,
and fixed in a gesture that appeared to bade
him stand and listen. He did stand and
listen. After the shot, he heard words
uttered by persons in the distance so rapidly
that he could not catch their purport; then
a sudden sharp cry, followed by a voice that
moaned "Heaven, avenge!" The spectre's
hand flickered slowly, moved and pointed to
the door. Its opened eyes shone full into the
face of Dowsie John.

After some minutes a step was heard in
the wet road. It approached the door of the
Charles in the Oak, but John, fixed by the
woman's gesture, stood immoveable, candle
in hand, his face aghast. The door had not
been bolted for the night. The stranger
pulled the latch; and, opening it, briskly
entered. The spectre vanished; but the last
part of it that vanished was the pointing
hand. The person who suddenly had come
in damp out of the mist, stood where its
form had lain, and shivered suddenly, as
though a cold blast from the ground had
whistled through his bones.

"Idiot!" he said, fiercely;  why do you
stare?"

It was evident to him, at a glance, that no
one else was stirring in the Charles in the
Oak; and John was for the time an idiot
indeed.

"If you have any sense," said the stranger,
"remember what I tell you. A man will
be found dead in the road to-morrow. It
was I that killed him; but his blood is not
upon my head. He waylaid me in my road
from the town to the station, shot at me, and
was slain by me in self-defence. That is my
name," he added, throwing down a card;
"I am known to many people in the town.
To-morrow I must be in London. If an
inquest be held, give evidence before it, as
well as your wits will allow, and say that
if they will adjourn over another day, I
shall appear to answer for myself before the
jury. Take this to keep your memory alive."

The stranger, who was a good-looking,
brawny man, advanced towards Dowsie
John, and, tossing a half-sovereign into the
dish of the chamber candlestick, turned on
his heel and went into the road again, closing
the door tranquilly after him.

The man had brought much dirt into the
hall with him; but, where he had been
standing longest, was a stain over which John
bent till he assured himself that it was blood.
He tried it with a corner of the card, and,
sickening at the bright red colour, slunk
trembling and cowed into his lair.

Wonderment followed wonderment next
morning at the Charles in the Oak. The
night-porter had gone to bed, leaving the
outer door unbolted. His candlestick was on
the floor of the entrance-hall, with the candle