It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-houseon Kimballton turnpike， about a quarter of a mile fromthe village of this name. His little mare was fast bringinghim up with a man on horseback who trotted throughthe gate a few rods in advance of him， nodded to the tollgathererand kept on towards the village. Dominicus wasacquainted with the toll-man， and while making changethe usual remarks on the weather passed between them.
“I suppose，” said the pedler， throwing back his whiplashto bring it down like a feather on the mare’s flank， “youhave not seen anything of old Mr. Higginbotham within aday or two？”
“Yes，” answered the toll-gatherer； “he passed the gatejust before you drove up， and yonder he rides now， if youcan see him through the dusk. He’s been to Woodfieldthis afternoon， attending a sheriff ’s sale there. The oldman generally shakes hands and has a little chat with me，but to-night he nodded， as if to say， ‘Charge my toll，’ andjogged on； for， wherever he goes， he must always be athome by eight o’clock.”
“So they tell me，” said Dominicus.
“I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squiredoes，” continued the toll-gatherer. “Says I to myselftonight， ‘He’s more like a ghost or an old mummy thangood flesh and blood.’”
The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight， andcould just discern the horseman now far ahead on thevillage road. He seemed to recognize the rear of Mr.
Higginbotham， but through the evening shadows andamid the dust from the horse’s feet the figure appeareddim and unsubstantial， as if the shape of the mysteriousold man were faintly moulded of darkness and gray light.
Dominicus shivered. “Mr. Higginbotham has come backfrom the other world by way of the Kimballton turnpike，”
thought he. He shook the reins and rode forward， keepingabout the same distance in the rear of the gray old shadowtill the latter was concealed by a bend of the road. Onreaching this point the pedler no longer saw the man onhorseback， but found himself at the head of the villagestreet， not far from a number of stores and two tavernsclustered round the meeting-house steeple. On his leftwas a stone wall and a gate， the boundary of a woodlotbeyond which lay an orchard， farther still a mowingfield，and last of all a house. These were the premisesof Mr. Higginbotham， whose dwelling stood beside theold highway， but had been left in the background by theKimballton turnpike.
Dominicus knew the place， and the little mare stoppedshort by instinct， for he was not conscious of tighteningthe reins. “For the soul of me， I cannot get by this gate！”
said he， trembling. “I never shall be my own man againtill I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging on the St.
Michael’s pear tree.” He leaped from the cart， gave therein a turn round the gate-post， and ran along the greenpath of the wood-lot as if Old Nick were chasing behind.
Just then the village clock tolled eight， and as each deepstroke fell Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew fasterthan before， till， dim in the solitary centre of the orchard，he saw the fated pear tree. One great branch stretchedfrom the old contorted trunk across the path and threwthe darkest shadow on that one spot. But somethingseemed to struggle beneath the branch.
The pedler had never pretended to more couragethan befits a man of peaceable occupation， nor could heaccount for his valor on this awful emergency. Certain itis， however， that he rushed forward， prostrated a sturdyIrishman with the butt-end of his whip， and found—not，indeed， hanging on the St. Michael’s pear tree， buttrembling beneath it with a halter round his neck—the oldidentical Mr. Higginbotham.
“Mr. Higginbotham，” said Dominicus， tremulously，“you’re an honest man， and I’ll take your word for it. Haveyou been hanged， or not？”
If the riddle be not already guessed， a few words willexplain the simple machinery by which this “comingevent” was made to cast its “shadow before.” Three menhad plotted the robbery and murder of Mr. Higginbotham；two of them successively lost courage and fled， eachdelaying the crime one night by their disappearance； thethird was in the act of perpetration， when a champion，blindly obeying the call of fate， like the heroes of oldromance， appeared in the person of Dominicus Pike.
It only remains to say that Mr. Higginbotham took thepedler into high favor， sanctioned his addresses to thepretty schoolmistress and settled his whole property ontheir children， allowing themselves the interest. In duetime the old gentleman capped the climax of his favors bydying a Christian death in bed； since which melancholyevent， Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballtonand established a large tobacco-manufactory in my nativevillage.
