winds the path where we used to watch for her at sunset. Look, she is there now, in the dainty, white frock we knew so well, with the big bonnet dangling from her little hands, and the sunny brown hair all tangled. Five thousand miles away! Dead for all we know! What of that? She is beside us now, and we can look into her laughing eyes, and hear her voice. She will vanish at the stile by the wood, and we shall be alone; and the shadows will creep out across the fields, and the night wind will sweep past moaning. Ghosts! they are always with us, and always will be, while the sad old world keeps echoing to the sob of long good-byes, while the cruel ships sail away across the great seas, and the cold, green earth lies heavy on the hearts of those we loved.
But, oh, ghosts, the world would be sadder still without you. Come to us, and speak to us, oh! you ghosts of our old loves. Ghosts of playmates, and of sweethearts, and old friends, of all you laughing boys and girls, oh, come to us, and be with us, for the world is very lonely, and new friends and faces are not like the old, and we cannot love them, nay, nor laugh with them as we have loved and laughed with you. And when we walked together, oh, ghosts of our youth, the world was very gay and bright; but now it has grown old, and we are growing weary, and only you can bring the brightness and the freshness back to us.
Memory is a rare ghost raiser. Like a haunted
