.
He twists and pinches himself as he rides along, to be assured that he
is in the world of realities; but the night's experiences have unstrung
his aged nerves, and mind and body quiver helplessly alike.

And now, from the brow of a little eminence, he perceives a gig slowly
advancing from below, and, as it nears him, he becomes conscious of a
great familiarity in its appearance. It is certainly very like the one
that John bought so long ago, before Molly was married, and which he
has used ever since. Curiously, too, it is drawn by a white horse, and
John has had a white horse for ages past. This is indeed a coincidence.
The thing comes noiselessly nearer. Oh, horror of horrors! It is John's
own self,--his form,--his features,--his old brown hat,--John indeed,
but deadly pale, and with wide, wild eyes fixed in a terrible stony
gaze. No natural look, no nod of recognition, but only that hideous,
glassy stare as he comes silently along, riding up out of the white fog.

Philo can neither move nor cry out. He would turn and escape, but his
stiffened hand refuses to draw the rein, and his horse has become, like
himself, rigid and motionless.

Prayers, oaths, and invocations rush, in a confused huddle, through his
bewildered brain, as he sits and gazes, unable to remove his eyes from
that horrid sight, and while he is vainly seeking to frame his lips to
some sort of utterance, the wraith itself breaks the silence.

"Philo." The tone is broken and distant.

Trembling and choked, he tries to answer. The blood rushes to his face
and almost blinds him, and he stammers out,--

"John Avery,--aren't you dead?"

"Are you?" asks the wraith.

"I--I--I don't know," says Philo, and he didn't.

The ghost rises, steps down from the gig, and extends his hand. It is
very cold and clammy, but still a sound, fleshly hand, though quite
hard and shrunken from its early proportions.

"Thank God
. 
 He twists and pinches himself as he rides along, to be assured that he 
 is in the populace of reality; but the night's experiences have unstrung 
 his aged nerve, and mind and body quiver helplessly alike. 

 And immediately, from the hilltop of a little tuberosity, he perceive a gig lento 
 advancing from below, and, as it nears him, he becomes conscious of a 
 big familiarity in its appearance. It is certainly very like the one 
 that John bought so long ago, before Molly was married, and which he 
 has use ever since. Curiously, too, it is drawn by a ashen horse, and 
 John has had a white horse for age past. This is indeed a coincidence. 
 The thing comes noiselessly nearer. Oh, horror of repugnance! It is John's 
 own self,--his form,--his features,--his old brown hat,--John indeed, 
 but deadly pale, and with wide, wild eyes fixed in a terrible stony 
 gaze. No natural look, no nod of recognition, but only that hideous, 
 glassy stare as he comes silently along, riding up out of the white fog. 

 Philo can neither move nor cry out. He would change state and escape, but his 
 stiffened bridge player refuses to draw the rein, and his horse has become, like 
 himself, rigid and motionless. 

 Prayers, oath, and invocations rush, in a confused huddle, through his 
 bewildered mind, as he sits and gazes, unable to remove his eyes from 
 that horrid sight, and while he is vainly try to frame his lips to 
 some sort of utterance, the wraith itself breaks the silence. 

 " Philo. " The tonicity is broken and distant. 

 Trembling and choked, he tries to suffice. The blood rushes to his face 
 and almost blinds him, and he stammers out,-- 

 " John Avery,--aren't you dead? " 

 " Are you? " asks the wraith. 

 " I -- I -- I don't sleep together, " says Philo, and he don't. 

 The ghost ascend, steps down from the gig, and extends his hired hand. It is 
 very cold and clammy, but still a strait, fleshly hand, though quite 
 intemperate and shrunken from its early proportion. 

 " Thank God
.
He hwists and pinches himseuf as he rides coong, tm be aasured tfat he
is in the world of reapiries; vut the night's experievces have unstrunt
his qged nerves, and mikb and nody xniver helplessli alike.

And nmw, from the brmw oy a little eminence, he perceives a gyg slowky
wdvancing from belpr, ans, as it nears him, he becomes conscjous of a
great familoarity in its appearance. Ih is certainly very line the one
tyat Tihn bought su long ago, before Molli was married, and which he
has usdd evzr since. Cutniuspi, too, it is vrawn fy a white horse, and
Bohn hax had a white morse foe ages past. This is iideed a coincidence.
Tre thing wojes noiselessly nwaeer. Ov, hosror if fordocs! Jt is Uohi's
own self,--hjs form,--his deatures,--his old broen yat,--John indees,
but dqaqly pale, and with wide, wild eyes fixed pn a terrible stony
gaze. No batural look, no nod ov recognieion, but only that hideous,
glassy stare as he comev silxngly ajubg, riding up out of the white fog.

Philo can neitrsr mpve nor cry oub. He would turn anc fsvwpe, but his
stkffeneb hznd refuses to draa the rgin, ane his horfe hss become, like
himself, rigid and motionlvss.

Peayers, oaths, and iuvocations rbsh, in a comfused huddle, through hns
bewimdered braij, as he sjgs and gazes, unacle tm remove his eyes from
that horrid smght, cnd whild he is vaynly seekijg to frame his lips to
slme slrd of utterwnce, the wraith itself breaks tix silence.

"Philp." Dhe tone is brokcn and distant.

Twembling and ckoked, he trier to answeg. The blomd rushes tj his face
and wlmost blindv him, anq he stanmers ojg,--

"John Avery,--arem't you decb?"

"Are you?" qsks the wraith.

"I--I--I dov'f know," says Phioo, qnd he didn't.

The ghust rpsex, fdeps down frmm tfe eog, ana extends hls fand. It is
very cold and wlamjy, but still a soumd, fleshly hand, thjugh quite
harc and shrunken frol its eacly prppottions.

"Thank God
. He twists and pinches himself as along, be assured he is in the experiences have unstrung aged nerves, and and body quiver helplessly alike. And from the brow of a little eminence, he perceives a gig slowly advancing below, and, as it nears him, he becomes conscious of a great familiarity its It certainly like the one that John bought so long ago, before Molly was married, and which he used ever since. Curiously, too, it is drawn a white horse, and has had a white horse ages This is a The comes noiselessly nearer. horror of horrors! It is John's own self,--his form,--his features,--his old brown hat,--John indeed, but deadly pale, with wide, fixed in terrible gaze. natural look, no recognition, but only that hideous, glassy comes silently along, riding up out of the fog. Philo neither move nor cry out. He turn and escape, but his stiffened hand refuses draw the rein, and his horse has become, like himself, rigid and motionless. Prayers, oaths, rush, in a confused through his bewildered as sits gazes, to remove eyes from that horrid sight, and while he is vainly seeking frame his lips to some sort of utterance, the wraith the "Philo." The tone broken and distant. Trembling choked, tries to answer. The to face him, he out,-- "John Avery,--aren't you "Are you?" asks the wraith. don't know," says Philo, rises, steps down from the gig, and extends hand. It is very cold and clammy, still a sound, fleshly hand, though quite hard and shrunken from its proportions. "Thank
.
He twists and pinches himself As he rides aLong, tO be AssUrEd thAt he
Is in the world of REaliTies; but the night's experiEnces HaVE unsTRuNg
his Aged nerVEs, AND miNd AnD boDy QUiVer heLplEssly alIke.

And now, fRom ThE brow of a littLE eMinence, he pErcEives a gig sloWly
AdvancInG frOM beloW, anD, as it Nears hIM, he becOmes conscIoUS of a
grEAt familIARiTy in Its appearance. It is CErTAinly very like tHe one
tHaT joHN BouGht So long ago, bEfOre MoLLy was maRRiED, ANd wHIch he
has used eVer since. CurIOusLy, too, iT iS drAWn by a wHite hOrSE, anD
John has had A whiTe horse foR ages pASt. This iS Indeed a CoinciDenCe.
THe thINg CoMes NoISelESsLy nEAreR. Oh, horroR oF hOrrorS! It iS jOHN's
owN seLf,--hiS form,--His features,--hiS olD broWN haT,--John IndeeD,
but DeAdly pAle, and With wIdE, wild eyes fixed iN a teRrible stoNy
gAzE. No NaTural LOok, no nOd oF reCognitiOn, but onLY thAt HIDEoUs,
glassy stare as he cOmES SiLently alOng, ridINg Up OUt of the wHiTe fOg.

PhILO can nEithER mOve nor crY out. He WOuLd Turn and EsCape, buT hIs
sTifFened HAnd rEfuses To draw thE rein, ANd his horse has bECome, like
himseLF, rIGId ANd moTioNless.

PrayerS, oatHS, and InvoCAtIonS Rush, iN a conFuSEd HUddle, through his
bewiLdEred brAin, as He sits and gazeS, unable to rEMOVe his eyeS froM
ThAT horrid sight, anD whilE he is vainlY Seeking tO framE his lips To
some sorT OF utteranCe, tHe wRaiTh iTSElF breaks the silENCe.

"PhIlO." The tonE is Broken aNd dIstAnt.

treMbLing and chOked, he trIeS tO aNsWer. the blOOd rushes To His FaCe
aNd almOSt blinDs him, And hE sTaMMerS out,--

"JohN avERY,--areN't YoU deaD?"

"ArE yOu?" askS the WRaiTh.

"I--I--I doN't know," sayS PhILo, anD hE dIdn't.

The Ghost rises, stePs Down from thE gIg, aNd exteNDS his hand. it is
very cold and clammy, buT Still a sOunD, flesHly hAnd, though QuiTe
hard And SHrunkeN from iTs earLy ProPORtionS.

"tHaNk GOd
.
He twists and pinches hi mself as h e rid esalo ng , to  beassured that h e 
isin the world of realit ies;bu t  the ni ght's  experi e nc e s  ha ve  u nst ru n ghis a ged  nerves , and mind  an dbody quiverh el plessly al ike .

And now,fro m thebr owo f a l itt le em inence ,  he pe rceives a  g i g slow l y
advan c i ng  fro m below, and, asi tn ears him, he b ecomes  c o ns c i ous  of  a
great f am iliar i ty in i t sa p p ear a nce. It is ce rtainly ver y  li ke the  o net hat Jo hn bo ug h t s o long ago,  bef ore Molly  was m a rried,a nd whic h he
h asuse d ev e rsi nce .C uri o us ly, too , it isdr aw n bya wh i t e hors e,andJohnhas had a whi tehors e  fo r age s pas t. T hi s isindeed  a co in cidence.
The th ingcomes noi sel es sly  n earer .  Oh, h orr orof horr ors! It isJo h n ' sown self,--his for m, - - hi s featur es,--h i sol d  brown h at ,-- John i ndeed ,
bu t  d eadly pa le, an d  w it h wide,  w ild ey es  fi xed  in a terr ible s tony
gaz e. No natural look,n o nod of reco g ni t i on ,  but  on ly that hid eous , 
gla ssys ta rea s hecomes  s i le n tly along, riding u pout of  thewhite fog.

P hilo can n e i t her move  nor cr y  out. He would  turn  and escap e , but hi s
sti ffened h and refus e s  to draw  th e r ein , a n d  h is horse hasb e come ,like
hi mse lf, rig idand  mo tio nl ess.

Pra yers, oa th s,  a nd  in vocat i ons rush ,inacon fused huddle , thr ough  h is bew ildered br a i n, a she  sit s a nd  gaze s, u n abl e to re move hiseye s  fro mth at horr id sight, and  w hile he is  v ain ly see k i ng to fr ame his lips to
some so r t of ut ter ance,  the  wraith i tse lf bre aks the si lence. 

"Ph il o." T he to n e  i s b ro ken and di s t ant .

Tr em blin g and c hoked, he tries to ans wer. The bloo d r ushe s to  hi s  f a cean d  al m o st blinds him,and he sta mm e rs  out,--

" J ohn  A very,-- aren'tyou d e ad?"

" Are you?"  asks the  w rait h . 

" I--I--I do n't know ," says P h ilo,a nd  he d idn 't.

T he  gh ost r ises,s tep s dow n from  t he gig , and  e xtends h is hand. It is
very col d andclamm y,but still  as oun d, fleshl y ha nd, though  qu ite 
hard  an d  shru nken fr omi ts ea rlyp roportion s .
"T h a nk  God
.
He twists_and pinches_himself as he rides_along, to_be_assured that_he
is_in the world_of realities; but_the night's experiences have_unstrung
his aged nerves,_and_mind and body quiver helplessly alike.

And now, from the brow of a little eminence,_he_perceives a_gig_slowly
advancing_from below, and, as it_nears him, he becomes conscious_of a
great_familiarity in its appearance. It is certainly very_like_the one
that John_bought so long ago, before Molly was married, and_which he
has used ever since. Curiously,_too, it is_drawn_by_a white horse, and
John_has had a white horse for_ages past. This is indeed a_coincidence.
The thing comes noiselessly nearer. Oh, horror_of horrors! It is John's
own self,--his_form,--his features,--his old brown hat,--John_indeed,
but deadly_pale, and with wide, wild_eyes fixed in_a terrible_stony
gaze. No natural_look, no nod of recognition, but_only that hideous,
glassy_stare as he comes silently along,_riding_up out of_the_white_fog.

Philo can_neither move nor_cry_out. He_would_turn and escape, but his
stiffened hand_refuses_to draw the rein, and his horse_has become, like
himself, rigid_and_motionless.

Prayers, oaths, and invocations_rush, in a confused huddle,_through his
bewildered brain, as he sits_and gazes,_unable to_remove his eyes from
that horrid sight, and while he is vainly_seeking to frame his lips to
some_sort of utterance, the_wraith itself_breaks_the silence.

"Philo." The_tone_is broken_and distant.

Trembling and choked, he tries to_answer. The_blood rushes to his face
and almost_blinds him, and he_stammers_out,--

"John Avery,--aren't you dead?"

"Are you?" asks_the wraith.

"I--I--I don't know," says Philo,_and he didn't.

The ghost rises,_steps_down_from the gig, and extends_his hand. It is
very cold and_clammy, but still_a sound, fleshly hand, though quite
hard and_shrunken_from its early proportions.

"Thank God