underlying. And as I stand gazing at it, wishing it were of the dead
who change not, there drifts back from the shadows that other face,
the one of the wicked mouth and the tender eyes, so that I stand again
helpless between the two I loved so well, he from whom I learned my
first steps in manhood, she from whom I caught my first glimpse of the
beauty and the mystery of woman. And again the cry rises from my
heart, "Whose fault was it--yours or hers?" And again I hear his
mocking laugh as he answers, "Whose fault? God made us." And
thinking of her and of the love I bore her, which was as the love of a
young pilgrim to a saint, it comes into my blood to hate him. But
when I look into his eyes and see the pain that lives there, my pity
grows stronger than my misery, and I can only echo his words, "God
made us."

Merry faces and sad, fair faces and foul, they ride upon the wind; but
the centre round which they circle remains always the one: a little
lad with golden curls more suitable to a girl than to a boy, with shy,
awkward ways and a silent tongue, and a grave, old-fashioned face.

And, turning from him to my old brick friend, I ask: "Would he know
me, could he see me, do you think?"

"How should he," answers the old House, "you are so different to what
he would expect. Would you recognise your own ghost, think you?"

"It is sad to think he would not recognise me," I say.

"It might be sadder if he did," grumbles the old House.

We both remained silent for awhile; but I know of what the old House