It was vexing to find so much gross superstition still extant in this last decade of the nineteenth century, certainly. Yet for all that, and though the notion of a spook dog was something too much for the materialistic mind to swallow, there is no use denying that, as I stood an hour later in Deadman's Hollow, with the recollection of the weird story I had just heard fresh in my memory, I was conscious of a cold shiver, which all the strength of the August sunshine, bathing the moorland in a glow of gold, was quite unable to lessen or to drive away.
THE WRECK OF THE MAY QUEEN.
BY ALICE F. JACKSON.
There was something in the air. Something ominous. A whisper of which we heard only the rustle, as it were—nothing of the words; but when one is on the bosom of the deep—hundreds of miles from land—in the middle of the Pacific Ocean—ominous whispers are, to say the least of it, a trifle disconcerting.
"What is it?" whispered Sylvia.
"I don't know," I said.
"Anything wrong with the ship?"
But I could only shrug my shoulders.