her hands in welcome, I arose also to my feet, and peering
anxiously into her face, asked, 'Is this Olivia?' 'Yes,' she softly
murmured in reply. Then ensued the following conversation which I
reproduce as faithfully as I can. It was broken off once by the Spirit's
retiring into the Cabinet, but resumed when she again appeared to me.

'Ah, Olive dear, how lovely of you to materialize! Did you really want
to come back?' 'Very much, of course,' she answered. 'And do you
remember the sweet years of old?' 'All of them,' she whispered. 'Do you
remember,' I continued, 'the old oak near Sumner-place?' [A happy hit,
in the longitude of Boston!] 'Yes, indeed, I do,' was the low reply, as
her head fell gently on my shoulder. 'And do you remember, Olive dear,
whose names were carved on it?' 'Yes; ah, yes!' 'Oh, Olive, there's one
thing I want so much to ask you about. Tell me, dear, if I speak of
anything you don't remember. What was the matter with you that
afternoon, one summer, when your father rode his hunter to the town, and
Albert followed after upon his; and then your mother trundled to the
gate behind the dappled grays. Do you remember it, dear?' 'Perfectly.'
'Well, don't you remember, nothing seemed to please you that afternoon,
you left the novel all uncut upon the rosewood shelf, you left your new
piano shut, something seemed to worry you. Do you remember it, dear
one?' 'All of it, yes, yes.' 'Then you came singing down to that old
oak, and kissed the place where I had carved our names with many vows.
Tell me, you little witch, who were you thinking of all that time?' 'All
the while of you,' she sighed. 'And do you, oh, do you remember that you
fell asleep under the oak, and that a little acorn fell into your bosom
and you tossed it out in a pet? Ah, Olive dear, I found that acorn, and
kissed it twice, and kissed it thrice for thee! And do you know that it
has grown into a fine young oak?' 'I know it,' she answered softly and
sadly, 'I often go to it!' This was almost too much for me, and as my
memory, on the spur of the moment, of Tennyson's _Talking Oak_ was
growing misty, I was afraid the interview might become embarrassing for
lack of reminiscences, so I said, 'Dearest Olivia, that is so lovely of
you. There, be a good girl, good-bye now. You'll surely come and see me
again the next time I come here, won't you?' 'Yes, indeed, I will.' I
released my arm from encircling a very human waist, and Olive lifted her
head fro