Emily yet. Your mother saw her once, Sara--that was a strange
thing," he added absently, as if to himself.

"Did mother really see her?" whispered the Story Girl.

"Well, she always believed she did. Who knows?"

"Do you think there are such things as ghosts, Uncle Blair?"
I asked curiously.

"I never saw any, Beverley."

"But you said you were trysting with ghosts here this evening,"
said the Story Girl.

"Oh, yes--the ghosts of the old years. I love this orchard
because of its many ghosts. We are good comrades, those ghosts
and I; we walk and talk--we even laugh together--sorrowful
laughter that has sorrow's own sweetness. And always there comes
to me one dear phantom and wanders hand in hand with me--a lost
lady of the old years."

"My mother?" said the Story Girl very softly.

"Yes, your mother. Here, in her old haunts, it is impossible for
me to believe that she can be dead--that her LAUGHTER can be dead.
She was the gayest, sweetest thing--and so young--only three years
older than you, Sara. Yonder old house had been glad because of
her for eighteen years when I met her first."