high upon the shore, the murmuring winds changed to howling blasts, the waves rolled mountains high, the spirits of the sea and air seemed to have arisen in their fury, doors rattled, houses shook on their foundations—­and to-morrow came, but no lover.  The wedding clothes were laid away, and the day which was to have seen the young girl made a happy wife, found her a heart-broken stricken woman; and now she must take up her burden, and from month to month and year to year, carry this leaden weight called a heart.

The years rolled by taking with them her girlish beauty, and leaving in its place the wrinkles of time and sorrow.  As time passed the idea took possession of her that her lover would still come back.  True the vessel in which he sailed had been wrecked, but still there lingered the one faint hope, and every night she lit 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