“The whole region seemed to have caught its breath, to be smothered under a pall of stillness, unbroken except for some occasional distant earthquake of thunder ”
By the side of a road which wanders in company of a stream across a region of Pennsylvania farmland that is called “Paradise” because of its beauty, you may still mark the ruins of a small brick cabin in the depths of a grove.
In summertime ivy drapes its jagged fragments and the pile might be lost to notice but that at dusk the trembling leaves of the vine have a way of whispering to the nerves of your horse and setting them too in a tremble. And the people in the village beyond have a belief that three troubled human beings lie buried under those ruins, and that at night, or in a storm, they sometimes cry aloud in their unrest.
The village is Bustlebury, and its people have a legend that on a memorable night there was once disclosed to a former inhabitant the secret of that ivied sepulchre.
In Public Domain
First published: 1917
Ovi eBook Publishing 2022
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