it open.  The moon was shinin’, and the woods was still, but Turk, he rushed out, and growled and barked like mad.  Bimeby he got tired, and come back lookin’ kind o’ skeered, and says I:  ’Ye’re a purty dog, ain’t ye?’ Jest then I hearn the thing nigher, and I begun to hear the brush crack.  I knowed I’d got to meet some new sort of a creetur, and I jest stepped back and took my rifle.  When I stood in the door agin, I seen somethin’ comin’.  It was a walkin’ on two legs like a man, and it was a man, or somethin’ that looked like one.  He come toward the cabin, and stopped about three rod off.  He had long white hair that looked jest like silk under the moon, and his robes was white, and he had somethin’ in his hand that shined like silver.  I jest drew up my rifle, and says I:  ‘Whosomever you be, stop, or I’ll plug ye.’  What do ye s’pose he did?  He jest took that shinin’ thing and swung it round and round his head, and I begun to feel the ha’r start, and up it come all over me.  Then he put suthin’ to his mouth, and then I knowed it was a trumpet, and he jest blowed till all the woods rung, and rung, and rung agin, and I hearn it comin’ back from the mountain, louder nor it was itself.  And then says I to myself:  ‘There’s another one, and Jim Fenton’s a goner;’ but I didn’t let on that I was skeered, and says I to him:  ’That’s a good deal of a toot; who be ye callin’ to dinner?’ And says he:  ’It’s the last day!  Come to jedgment!  I’m the Angel Gabr’el!’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘if ye’re the Angel Gabr’el, cold lead won’t hurt ye, so mind yer eyes!’ At that I drew a bead on ’im, and if ye’ll b’lieve it, I knocked a tin horn out of his hands and picked it up the next mornin’, and he went off into the woods like a streak o’ lightnin’.  But my ha’r hain’t never come down.”

Jim stroked the refractory locks toward his forehead with his huge hand, and they rose behind it like a wheat-field behind a summer wind.  As he finished the manipulation, Mr. Buffum gave symptoms of life.  Like a volcano under premonitory signs of an eruption, a wheezy chuckle seemed to begin somewhere in the region of his boots, and rise, growing more and more audible, until it burst into a full demonstration, that was half laugh and half cough.

“Why, what are you laughing at, father?” exclaimed Miss Buffum.

The truth was that Mr. Buffum had not slept at all.  The simulation of sleep had been indulged in simply to escape the necessity of talking.

“It was old Tilden,” said Mr. Buffum, and then went off into another fit of coughing and laughing that nearly strangled him.

“I wonder if it was!” seemed to come simultaneously from the lips of the mother and her daughters.

“Did you ever see him again?” inquired Mr. Buffum.

“I seen ’im oncet, in the spring, I s’pose,” said Jim, “what there was left of ‘im.  There wasn’t much left but an old shirt and some bones, an’ I guess he wa’n’t no great shakes of an angel.  I buried ’im where I found ‘im, and said nothin’ to nobody.”