They had been attending a May Day festival
at Greenton; and that serves to fix the date. Alto-
gether there may have been a dozen, and a jolly
party they were, considering the legacy of gloom left
by the town's recent sombre experiences. As they
passed the cemetery the man driving suddenly reined
in his team with an exclamation of surprise. It was
sufficiently surprising, no doubt, for just ahead, and
almost at the roadside, though inside the cemetery,
stood the ghost of Hetty Parlow. There could be
no doubt of it, for she had been personally known
to every youth and maiden in the party. That estab-
lished the thing's identity; its character as ghost
was signified by all the customary signs--the
shroud, the long, undone hair, the 'far-away look'
--everything. This disquieting apparition was
stretching out its arms toward the west, as if in
supplication for the evening star, which, certainly,
was an alluring object, though obviously out of
reach. As they all sat silent (so the story goes) every
member of that party of merrymakers--they had
merrymade on coffee and lemonade only--distinctly
heard that ghost call the name 'Joey, Joey!' A mo-
ment later nothing was there. Of course one does not
have to believe all that.
Now, at that moment, as was afterward ascer-
tained, Joey was wandering about in the sagebrush
on the opposite side of the continent, near Winne-
mucca, in the State of Nevada.
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