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A Haunted House

"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number."
"Waking in the morning—" "Silver between the trees—" "Upstairs—" "In
the garden—" "When summer came—" "In winter snowtime—" The
doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a
heart.
Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides
silver down the glass. Our eyes darken; we hear no steps beside us; we
see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern.
"Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and
deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops
slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meet-
ing, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the
sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years—"
he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the
garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our
treasure—" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe!
safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your
buried treasure? The light in the heart."
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