“For God’s sake, don’t say that! It savors too much of that accursed creed that has been at the bottom of all my trouble,” said Walden with savage vehemence. “The nauseating flavor of the other world which I have been obliged to taste from the hands of these spiritists has given me no appetite for any more of it, I assure you. I’ll think of Hades or Nirvana, but not of that intermediate place where spirits are supposed to roam. Ugh! I’ll have none of it!” CHAPTER XX SPIRITS OF THE AIR “Are you visited by phantoms or by ghosts at midnight, walking? See you grim and grisley spectres? Do you never hear them talking? Talking low, in chilling whispers, of the worn heart’s secret sorrows, Of the lone heart’s hidden treasures, and the hopes it vainly borrows? “When alone, at evening sitting, in the shadows of the twilight, See them softly by you flitting—or in dimness of the firelight— Phantoms of your youthful pleasures, mocking at you now, and scoffing, Whispering as they brush you, lightly, ‘past the hours of mirth and laughing.’ “Spectres of the dear departed, who once smiled upon you, brightly; Of the fair and faithful hearted, whom you love to dream of, nightly. Other forms from out the shadows walk and grin with horrid grimness, Mock you with their ceaseless chatter, as the firelight fades in dimness. “Then, sometimes you feel the coolness of the west wind softly blowing, Of the cool sweet wind of summer, fresh from where bright waves are flowing, And it carries with it zephyrs, whispers of the happy childhood— Of the joyous days of girlhood, and the fragrance of the wildwood. “And you clutch with eager yearning, but to stay them in their fleeting, Clutch at air and soulless nothing, vain is all your soul’s entreating; Gone beyond is all the sweetness, carried by the zephyrs lightly, Borne afar beyond your reaching, by the mocking phantoms, nightly. “O the year so slowly drifting, with their freight of human sorrow, Are they very near their ending? Will they end, too, on the morrow? Ghosts of years and ghosts of pleasures, cease, oh cease, your midnight stalking, Fill no more the heart with anguish, by your tireless, soundless walking.” Alice Cramer stood by the small window of her home, her fingers unconsciously thrumming on the pane, while she gazed out into the shadowing twilight of early spring.