"Oh, where is Mary Alice Smith?" She taught
us how to call her thus--and now she will not
answer us! Have we no voice to reach her with?
How sweet and pure and glad they were in those old
days, as we recall the accents ringing through the
hall--the same we vainly cry to her. Her fancies
were so quaint--her ways so full of prankish
mysteries! We laughed then; now, upon our knees,
we wring our lifted hands and gaze, through streaming
tears, high up the stairs she used to climb in
childish glee, to call and answer eerily. And now,
no answer anywhere!

How deft the little finger-tips in every task! The
hands, how smooth and delicate to lull and soothe!
And the strange music of her lips! The very
crudeness of their speech made chaster yet the
childish thought her guileless utterance had caught
from spirit-depths beyond our reach. And so her
homely name grew fair and sweet and beautiful
to hear, blent with the echoes pealing clear and
vibrant up the winding stair: "Where--where is Mary
Alice Smith?" She taught us how to call her thus
--but oh, she will not answer us! We have no
voice to reach her with.