The Harding family consisted of Robert Harding, his wife Matilda, Miss Julia Went, who was her sister, and two young children.  Robert Harding was a silent, cold-mannered man who made no friends in the neighborhood and apparently cared to make none.  He was about forty years old, frugal and industrious, and made a living from the little farm which is now overgrown with brush and brambles.  He and his sister-in-law were rather tabooed by their neighbors, who seemed to think that they were seen too frequently together—­not entirely their fault, for at these times they evidently did not challenge observation.  The moral code of rural Missouri is stern and exacting.

Mrs. Harding was a gentle, sad-eyed woman, lacking a left foot.

At some time in 1884 it became known that she had gone to visit her mother in Iowa.  That was what her husband said in reply to inquiries, and his manner of saying it did not encourage further questioning.  She never came back, and two years later, without selling his farm or anything that was his, or appointing an agent to look after his interests, or removing his household goods, Harding, with the rest of the family, left the country.  Nobody knew whither he went; nobody at that time cared.  Naturally, whatever was movable about the place soon disappeared and the deserted house became “haunted” in the manner of its kind.

One summer evening, four or five years later, the Rev. J. Gruber, of Norton, and a Maysville attorney named Hyatt met on horseback in front of the Harding place.  Having business matters to discuss, they hitched their animals and going to the house sat on the porch to talk.  Some humorous reference to the somber reputation of the place was made and forgotten as soon as uttered, and they talked of their business affairs until it grew almost dark.  The evening was oppressively warm, the air stagnant.

Presently both men started from their seats in surprise:  a long vine that covered half the front of the house and dangled its branches from the edge of the porch above them was visibly and audibly agitated, shaking violently in every stem and leaf.

“We shall have a storm,” Hyatt exclaimed.

Gruber said nothing, but silently directed the other’s attention to the foliage of adjacent trees, which showed no movement; even the delicate tips of the boughs silhouetted against the clear sky were motionless.  They hastily passed down the steps to what had been a lawn and looked upward at the vine, whose entire length was now visible.  It continued in violent agitation, yet they could discern no disturbing cause.

“Let us leave,” said the minister.

And leave they did.  Forgetting that they had been traveling in opposite directions, they rode away together.  They went to Norton, where they related their strange experience to several discreet friends.  The next evening, at about the same hour, accompanied by two others whose names are not recalled, they were again on the porch of the Harding house, and again the mysterious phenomenon occurred:  the vine was violently agitated while under the closest scrutiny from root to tip, nor did their combined strength applied to the trunk serve to still it.  After an hour’s observation they retreated, no less wise, it is thought, than when they had come.