Still the wood is dim and lonely,
Still the plashing fountains play,
But the past with all its beauty,
Whither has it fled away?
Hark! the mournful echoes say,
Fled away! -A. A. Proctor.
"And the apparition that we both saw was like that of the gipsy girl in the ghostly legend," said Sybil, musingly.
"Yes; in the matter of the