What fun they all had had here lang syne.

Phantoms of memory seemed to pace the dappled paths and peep merrily through the swinging boughs--Jem and Jerry, bare-legged, sunburned schoolboys, fishing in the brook and frying trout over the old stone fireplace; Nan and Di and Faith, in their dimpled, fresh-eyed childish beauty; Una the sweet and shy, Carl, poring over ants and bugs, little slangy, sharp-tongued, good-hearted Mary Vance--the old Walter that had been himself lying on the grass reading poetry or wandering through palaces of fancy.

They were all there around him--he could see them almost as plainly as he saw Rilla--as plainly as he had once seen the Pied Piper piping down the valley in a vanished twilight.

And they said to him, those gay little ghosts of other days, "We were the children of yesterday, Walter--fight a good fight for the children of to-day and to-morrow." "Where are you, Walter," cried Rilla, laughing a little.

"Come back--come back." Walter came back with a long breath.