The Press., 1891-06-11

in the evening by the short cut. There will be 8 moon; or he may stay the night if not strong enough to go home.
 So it was arranged. Old Andrew and John talked together of the simple, worn subjects of their rude lives the poverty of the soil, the long season without rain, the many hardships that befall the farmer.
 The wife piled David with questions about the town. 'sWas there big crowd at the fair? And the weather-was it fine every day? Did you see the cows from the Duncan farmY and so on. Da- vid answered absently, thinking of the waiting stranger outside the gate.
 When the twilight fell the young man felt able to go on, and was anxious to reach his family, so the two men set out along the path through the rocky fields As they reached the base of ssThe Rocks and began the steep ascent the moon rose. S-s
 John led the way, stepping cautiously, certain footholds.
 But David, climbing after, thought of nothing but the somber shape that had waited outside and had followed close across the fields after them, and which he felt climbed up and up behind him, step for step.
 There was no sound, except when at intervals a loose stone rolled down, dis lodged by their feet. The night was beau tiful, the broad faco of the cliff shone in the moonlight. Here and there along the edge of the path, where there was danger, rude railings had been placed to protect the travelef; these were silvered by the moon. At some places rock jutting out cast below it dense shadow amid the surrounding whiteness.
 As they climbed, David tried to force himself to turn and face the man in the black cloak, and question him, his name, his mission, why he followed, gaining steadily, step by step, but he lacked courage. Once he had met that cold, steady gaze; he could not brave it again. He watched his comrade climb above him slowly. Slowly he climbed after, and, glancing down, saw the edge of the black cloak blown upward against his legs.
 He stopped and put his hands over his eyes. "Who are you?" he said in low, broken voice. "Why do you follow, pressing nearer and nearer@
 And a voice answered at his ear, while the folds of the cloak, blown upward, Tapped about him, "You shall know my name when you are at the end of your journey"
 "No, nowr' whispered David hoarsely. "Now, your name!'
 Further on!'' came the voice. "When you reach the next railing"
 And they climbed on again in the moonlight. John had gone round turn of the path out of sight. David ad- vanced feebly, rising laboriously from step to step, pausing often. He could feel the other pressing up behind him, ever nearer.
 When they reached the railing above David stopped, with his hand upon it. "Now, your name"
 Do you not knowT'
 The moonlight fell with tender beauty over the broad valley below, upon the white road, upon the forest trees, upon the small brown house at the foot of the cliff. The black cloak foated about his head, before his eyes, coming between them and the fair picture. A hand fell upon his, grasping the railing.
 "Your name!-your name!'
 David's hand closed firmly on the wooden rail, and he leaned heavily against it for support; an arm closed round him.
 "I am so near-so near. Do you not know?'
 There was sharp sound of breaking wood as the rotten timber parted in two, and David fell outward, his struggling feet scraping along the rock. As he fell the folds of black swept round him, the arm embraced him more closely and they went down together. And David knew that the one that followed was Death Charles Edward KinEead in Pittsburg Bulletin.