For the last mile his road lay through forest-land: noble oaks, with a plentiful under-growth of holly, over-shadowed a floor of brown leaves and red fern; and at the end of the wood nearest home, where the oaks joined their own fir plantations, one mighty gnarled tree, broader and older than all the rest, held aloft its withered boughs against the frosty sky.
This oak was one of the bogie haunts of the neighbourhood.

All sorts of stories were told about it, all of which George, of course, believed; so that when his horse started and refused to move forward, and when he saw a dark figure sitting on the twisted roots of the tree, he grew suddenly cold, and believed he had seen a ghost.
The figure rose, and stalked towards him through the gathering gloom; he saw that it held a baby in its arms, and that it was tall and noble-looking.

Then a new fear took possession of him, not supernatural; and he said in a low voice--"Ellen!" "That was my name once, George Hawker," replied she, standing beside him, and laying her hand upon his horse's shoulder.

"I don't know what my name is now, I'm sure; It surely can't remain the same, and me so altered." "What on earth brings you back just at this time, in God's name ?" asked George.
"Hunger, cold, misery, drunkenness, disease.

Those are the merry companions that lead me back to my old sweetheart.