place." "The weeks passed and the months. Sometimes they heard [Pg 111] Here our host paused, and one sigh broke from all Our circle whom his tale had held in thrall. But he who had required it of him spoke In what we others felt an ill-timed joke: "Well, this is something like!" A girl said, "Don't!" As if it hurt, and he said, "Well, I won't. Go on!" And in a sort of muse our host Said: "I suppose we all expect a ghost Will sometimes come to us. But I doubt if we Are moved by its coming as we thought to be. At any rate, the women were not scared, But, as I said, they simply sat and stared Till the face vanished. Then the mother said, 'It was your father, girls, and he is dead.' But both had known him; and now all went on Much as before till three weeks more were gone, When, one night sitting as they sat before, Together with their mother, at the door They heard a fumbling hand, and on the walk Up from the pier, the tramp and muffled talk Of different wind-blown voices that they knew For the hoarse voices of their father's crew. [Pg 112] Then the door opened, and their father stood Before them, palpably in flesh and blood. The mother spoke for all, her own misgiving: 'Father, is this your ghost? Or are you living?' 'I am alive!' 'But in this very place We saw your face look, like a spirit's face, There through that window, just three weeks ago, And now you are alive!' 'I did not know That I had come; all I know is that then I wanted to tell you folks here that our Ben Was dying of typhoid fever. He raved of you So that I could not think what else to do. He's there in Bay Shaloor!' Here our host paused, and one sigh broke from all [Pg 112] "Well, that's the end." And rising up to mend the fire our friend Seemed trying to shun comment; but in vain: The exacting guest came at him once again; "You must be going to fall down, I thought, There at the climax, when your story brought The skipper home alive and well. But no, You saved yourself with honor." The girl said, "Oh," Who spoke before, "it's wonderful! But you, How could you think of anything so true, So delicate, as the father's wistful face Coming there at the window in the place [Pg 113] Of the dead son's! And then, that quaintest touch, Of half-apology—that he felt so much, He had to come! How perfectly New England! Well, I hope nobody will undertake to tell A common or garden ghost-story to-night."
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