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But
afterward
?
The
only
ghosts
,
I
believe
,
who
creep
into
this
world
,
are
dead
young
mothers
,
returned
to
see
how
their
children
fare
.
There
is
no
other
inducement
great
enough
to
bring
the
departed
back
.
They
glide
into
the
acquainted
room
when
day
and
night
,
their
jailers
,
are
in
the
grip
,
and
whisper
,
"
How
is
it
with
you
,
my
child
?
"
but
always
,
lest
a
strange
face
should
frighten
him
,
they
whisper
it
so
low
that
he
may
not
hear
.
They
bend
over
him
to
see
that
he
sleeps
peacefully
,
and
replace
his
sweet
arm
beneath
the
coverlet
,
and
they
open
the
drawers
to
count
how
many
little
vests
he
has
.
They
love
to
do
these
things
.
What
is
saddest
about
ghosts
is
that
they
may
not
know
their
child
.
They
expect
him
to
be
just
as
he
was
when
they
left
him
,
and
they
are
easily
bewildered
,
and
search
for
him
from
room
to
room
,
and
hate
the
unknown
boy
he
has
become
.
Poor
,
passionate
souls
,
they
may
even
do
him
an
injury
.
These
are
the
ghosts
that
go
wailing
about
old
houses
,
and
foolish
wild
stories
are
invented
to
explain
what
is
all
so
pathetic
and
simple
.
I
know
of
a
man
who
,
after
wandering
far
,
returned
to
his
early
home
to
pass
the
evening
of
his
days
in
it
,
and
sometimes
from
his
chair
by
the
fire
he
saw
the
door
open
softly
and
a
woman
's
face
appear
.
She
always
looked
at
him
very
vindictively
,
and
then
vanished
.
Strange
things
happened
in
this
house
.
Windows
were
opened
in
the
night
.
The
curtains
of
his
bed
were
set
fire
to
.
A
step
on
the
stair
was
loosened
.
The
covering
of
an
old
well
in
a
corridor
where
he
walked
was
cunningly
removed
.
And
when
he
fell
ill
the
wrong
potion
was
put
in
the
glass
by
his
bedside
,
and
he
died
.
How
could
the
pretty
young
mother
know
that
this
grizzled
interloper
was
the
child
of
whom
she
was
in
search
?
All
our
notions
about
ghosts
are
wrong
.
It
is
nothing
so
petty
as
lost
wills
or
deeds
of
violence
that
brings
them
back
,
and
we
are
not
nearly
so
afraid
of
them
as
they
are
of
us
.
One
by
one
the
lights
of
the
street
went
out
,
but
still
a
lamp
burned
steadily
in
the
little
window
across
the
way
.
I
know
not
how
it
happened
,
whether
I
had
crossed
first
to
him
or
he
to
me
,
but
,
after
being
for
a
long
time
as
the
echo
of
each
other
's
steps
,
we
were
together
now
.
I
can
have
had
no
desire
to
deceive
him
,
but
some
reason
was
needed
to
account
for
my
vigil
,
and
I
may
have
said
something
that
he
misconstrued
,
for
above
my
words
he
was
always
listening
for
other
sounds
.
But
however
it
came
about
he
had
conceived
the
idea
that
I
was
an
outcast
for
a
reason
similar
to
his
own
,
and
I
let
his
mistake
pass
,
it
seemed
to
matter
so
little
and
to
draw
us
together
so
naturally
.
We
talked
together
of
many
things
,
such
as
worldly
ambition
.
For
long
ambition
has
been
like
an
ancient
memory
to
me
,
some
glorious
day
recalled
from
my
springtime
,
so
much
a
thing
of
the
past
that
I
must
make
a
railway
journey
to
revisit
it
as
to
look
upon
the
pleasant
fields
in
which
that
scene
was
laid
.
But
he
had
been
ambitious
yesterday
.
I
mentioned
worldly
ambition
.
"
Good
God
!
"
he
said
with
a
shudder
.
There
was
a
clock
hard
by
that
struck
the
quarters
,
and
one
o'clock
passed
and
two
.
What
time
is
it
now
?
Twenty
past
two
.
And
now
?
It
is
still
twenty
past
two
.
I
asked
him
about
his
relatives
,
and
neither
he
nor
she
had
any
.
"
We
have
a
friend
--
"
he
began
and
paused
,
and
then
rambled
into
a
not
very
understandable
story
about
a
letter
and
a
doll
's
house
and
some
unknown
man
who
had
bought
one
of
his
pictures
,
or
was
supposed
to
have
done
so
,
in
a
curiously
clandestine
manner
.
I
could
not
quite
follow
the
story
.
