ace bore when in
repose something of that seer-like expression which communion with the
bodiless shapes of memory had given to his.

The latching of the gate broke up her depressing reverie, and banished
the pinched and pining look from her features. Among the neighbors Miss
Rood was sometimes called a sour old maid, but the face she kept for
Mr. Morgan would never have suggested that idea to the most ill-natured
critic.

He stopped at the window, near which the walk passed to the doorway, and
stood leaning on the sill,--a tall, slender figure, stooping a
little, with smooth, scholarly face, and thin iron-gray hair. His
only noticeable feature was a pair of eyes whose expression and glow
indicated an imaginative temperament. It was pleasant to observe the
relieved restlessness in the look and manner of the two friends, as if
at the mere being in each other's presence, though neither seemed in any
haste to exchange even the words of formal greeting.

At length she said, in a tone of quiet satisfaction, "I knew you
would come, for I was sure this deathly autumn's flavor would make you
restless. Is n't it strange how it affects the nerves of memory, and
makes one sad with thinking of all the sweet, dear days that are dead?"

"Yes, yes," he answered eagerly; "I can think of nothing else. Do they
not seem wonderfully clear and near to-night? To-night, of all nights
in the year, if the figures and scenes of memory can be reembodied in
visible forms, they ought to become so to the eyes that strain and yearn
for them."

"What a fanciful idea, Robert!"

"I don't know that it is; I don't feel sure. Nobody understands the
mystery of this Past, or what are the conditions of existence in that
world. These memories, these forms and faces, that are so near, so
almost warm and visible that we find ourselves smiling on the vacant air
where they seem to be, are they not real and living?"

"You don't mean you believe in ghosts?"

"I am not talking of ghosts of the dead, but of ghosts of the past,--
memories of scenes or persons, whether the persons are dead or not--
of our own selves as well as others. Why," he continued, his voice
softening into a passionate, yearning tenderness, "the figure I would
give most to see just once more is yourself as a girl, as I remember you
in the sweet grace and beauty of your maidenhood. Ah, well! ah, well!"

"Don't!" she cried involuntarily, while her features contracted in
sudden pain.

In