not answer, for I was staring stupidly at her, reluctant to
abandon the pleasing fancy that my thinking of her had brought
her back from the dead again. She did not speak, but glanced
inquiringly at the flowers I held in my hand.

"I knew your mother, Phyllis," I managed to say. "She was a very
dear playmate of my childhood. I have brought these flowers to
put upon her grave. Shall we go together?"

The girl's eyes filled, and she pointed to the rising mound at
her feet. Silently we bent over and reverently laid the lilies
and forget-me-nots under the simple headstone.

"May I talk to you of your mother?" I asked.

We sat down on a rude bench in the path, and I told her of my
childhood, of the days when Sylvia and I were sweethearts, of our
little quarrels and frolics, of her mother's beauty and
gentleness. The girl laughed at the recital of our misadventures,
and the tears came into her eyes when I touched on my boyish
affection for my playmate. Then she told me of her own life, so
peaceful and happy in the little village, and in the neighboring
town, where she had been educated with all the care and diligence
of the New England impulse. I looked at my watch.

"It is quarter past eleven," I said ruefully, "and my train left
at ten."

"There's another train at three," she replied. "You will go home
and dine with us? We dine at twelve in the country, you know."

If I was somewhat ashamed to face Mary Eastmann, she received us
with the same stolidity she had manifested when we first met, and
at once insisted that I should remain for dinner. "Go into the
parlor," she said abruptly.

Phyllis plucked the sleeve of my coat. "Don't go in there," she
whispered; "that's Aunt Mary's room exclusively, and I'm afraid
you'll not find it very cheerful. Come out on the porch."

"I know the room," I whispered back, as we went out together. "At
least I know the type. Lots of horse-hair belongings. Square
piano against the wall. Wax flowers under a glass case on the
mantel. Steel engravings of Washington crossing the Delaware.
Family album, huge Bible, and 'Famous Women of Two Centuries' on
the centre table. Seashells, blue wedgwood and German china
things mingled in delightful confusion on the what-not. If not
wax flowers, it's wax fruit."

Phyllis laughed--how much her laugh was like her mother's--and
nodded her head. "Not a bad description," she assented; "you must
have the gift of second sight."

"Not second sight. S