Mrs. Wilton was not exactly ill last winter, not so ill, at least, as to keep to her bedroom.  But she was very thin, and her great handsome eyes always seemed to be staring at some point beyond, searching.  There was a look in them that seamen’s eyes sometimes have when they are drawing on a coast of which they are not very certain.  She lived almost in solitude:  she hardly ever saw anybody except when they sought her out.  To those who were anxious about her she laughed and said she was very well.

One sunny morning she was lying awake, waiting for the maid to bring her tea.  The shy London sunlight peeped through the blinds.  The room had a fresh and happy look.

When she heard the door open she thought that the maid had come in.  Then she saw that Hugh was standing at the foot of the bed.  He was in uniform this time, and looked as he had looked the day he went away.

“Oh, Hugh, speak to me!  Will you not say just one word?”

He smiled and threw back his head, just as he used to in the old days at her mother’s house when he wanted to call her out of the room without attracting the attention of the others.  He moved towards the door, still signing to her to follow him.  He picked up her slippers on his way and held them out to her as if he wanted her to put them on.  She slipped out of bed hastily. . . .

* * * * *

It is strange that when they came to look through her things after her death the slippers could never be found.

FOOTNOTE: 

[J] Copyright, 1917, by The Boston Transcript Co.  Copyright, 1918, by Vincent O’Sullivan.

“DEY AIN’T NO GHOSTS"[K]

BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER

Once ‘pon a time dey was a li’l’ black boy whut he name was Mose.  An’ whin he come erlong to be ’bout knee-high to a mewel, he ’gin to git powerful ’fraid ob ghosts, ’ca’se dat am sure a mighty ghostly location whut he lib’ in, ‘ca’se dey’s a grabeyard in de hollow, an’ a buryin’-ground on de hill, an’ a cemuntary in betwixt an’ between, an’ dey ain’t nuffin’ but trees nowhar excipt in de clearin’ by de shanty an’ down de hollow whar de pumpkin-patch am.

An’ whin de night come’ erlong, dey ain’t no sounds at all whut kin be heard in dat locality but de rain-doves, whut mourn out, “Oo-oo-o-o-o!” jes dat trembulous an’ scary, an’ de owls, whut mourn out, “Whut-whoo-o-o-o!” more trembulous an’ scary dan dat, an’ de wind, whut mourn out, “You-you-o-o-o!” mos’ scandalous’ trembulous an’ scary ob all.  Dat a powerful onpleasant locality for a li’l’ black boy whut he name was Mose.

‘Ca’se dat li’l’ black boy he so specially black he can’t be seen in de dark at all ‘cept by de whites ob he eyes.  So whin he go’ outen de house at night, he ain’t dast shut he eyes, ’ca’se den ain’t nobody can see him in de least.  He jest as invidsible as nuffin’.  An’ who know’ but whut a great, big ghost bump right into him ’ca’se it can’t see him?  An’ dat shore w’u’d scare dat li’l’ black boy powerful’ bad, ’ca’se yever’body knows whut a cold, damp pussonality a ghost is.