the lamp and placed it in the
window as she had done in her youth, as the beacon light for the absent
love. As time passed she followed her father to the grave and in a short
time stood by the bed of her dying mother. And now she was alone in her
loneliness and desolation. Every year when the day came which was to
have been her wedding day, the white dress, which had grown yellow with
age, was taken out, folded and flowers scattered over it as carefully as
we would sprinkle flowers over a child's grave, for in the box in which
the garment lay, were buried all her hopes. Does it not seem strange
that one can live on year after year, with no hope, no joy; waken in the
morning with the thought that "here is another day to be passed over,"
another night with the sad dreams and gloomy awaking.

At the approach of a storm, when the clouds began to gather, the
solitary woman could be seen standing on the shore gazing long and
earnestly over the dark waters. But at last it was with difficulty that
she dragged herself to the beach and her hands trembled so that she
could scarcely light the lamp for the window, but she said to herself
"he will surely come," for if faith, hope and long suffering, if patient
waiting, prayers and longing have power to affect disembodied spirits,
my faith will surely be rewarded.

And now another year has passed and again the anniversary of the sad day
has dawned. With trembling, withered hands, she once more unfolds the
wedding dress. She must make one more visit to the shore, for she feels
it will be for the last time, as with slow uncertain steps she drags
herself along. And now as night approaches she is too ill to light the
lamp.

Neighbors miss the accustomed light, find the lonely woman too ill to
rise, and they know that in a few hours all will be over. They lit the
lamp to humor the whim of a dying woman. The winds began to moan
fitfully; the waves could be heard dashing on the shore, while the
lightning flashed and illuminated the room in which the woman lay. There
is something weird in the whole scene--the lighted lamp for the lover,
dead over half a century, the dying woman, the moaning wind, and the
sound of the waters. And now she is muttering in her dreams, and talking
to her lover, she has forgotten all the years that have passed, and is
bidding him a joyous welcome and while the storm is at its height, a
smile of tenderness has passed over the face of the old creature, making
her