As she sot there looking out, waiting for that other river, whose waves crept nearer and nearer to her feet,--that other river, on which her soul should sail away to meet her glorious dead; that river which whispers “Forever, forever;” that river which is never unquiet, and whose waves are murmuring of nothing less beautiful than of meeting, of love, and of lasting repose. CHAPTER X. When we got back from Mount Vernon, and entered our boardin'-house, Cicely went right up to her room. But I, feelin' kinder beat out (eloquent emotions are very tuckerin' on a tower), thought I would set down a few minutes in the parlor to rest, before I mounted up the stairs to my room. But truly, as it turned out, I had better have gone right up, breath or no breath. For, while I was a settin' there, a tall, sepulchral lookin' female, that I had noticed at the breakfast-table, come up to me; and says she,-- “I beg your pardon, mom, but I believe you are the noble and eloquent Josiah Allen's wife, and I believe you are a stoppin' here.” Says I calmly, “I hain't a stoppin'--I am stopped, as it were, for a few days.” “Wall,” says she, “a friend of mine is comin' to-night, to my room, No. 17, to give a private seansy. And knowin' you are a great case to investigate into truths, I thought mebby you would love to come, and witness some of our glorious spirit manifestations.” I thanked her for her kindness, but told her “I guessed I wouldn't go. I didn't seem to be sufferin' for a seancy.” “Oh!” says she: “it is wonderful, wonderful to see. Why, we will tie the medium up, and he will ontie himself.” “Oh!” says I. “I have seen that done, time and agin. I used to tie Thomas J. up when he was little, and naughty; and he would, in spite of me, ontie himself, and get away.” “Who is Thomas J.?” says she. “Josiah's child by his first wife,” says I. “Wall,” says she, “if we have a good circle, and the conditions are favorable, the spirits will materialize,--come before us with a body.” “Oh!” says I. “I have seen that. Thomas J. used to dress up as a ghost, and appear to us. But he didn't seem to think the conditions wus so favorable, and he didn't seem to appear so much, after his father ketched him at it, and give him a good whippin'.” And says I firmly, “I guess that would be about the way with your ghosts.” And after I had said it, the idee struck me as bein' sort o' pitiful,--to go to whippin' a ghost. But she didn't seem to notice my remark, for she seemed to be a gazin' upward in a sort of a muse; and she says,-- “Oh! would you not like to talk with your departed kindred?” “Wall, yes,” says I firmly, after a minute's thought. “I would like to.” “Come to-night to our seansy, and we will call 'em, and you shall talk with 'em.”