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The Ghost Farm by Susan Andrews Rice. When Stephen was killed, we did

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not know it until thirty days afterwards. He went overseas in April, and

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it was the last of June before
we knew. He went out with a

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party of engineers to repair a railroad
track and was blown to pieces by a

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German shell. We could not tell
Maytie the truth. She knew he was

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dead, but concerning the manner of
his going, she was ignorant. They

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were engaged. Her love for him
amounted to adoration. She was an intense,

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emotional girl, bound to be unhappy
because of her sensitive nature and strong

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feelings. She was under my professional
care for several weeks, the latter part

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of the summer, suffering from a
broken ankle. It is the silence,

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the awful blank wall between Stephen and
me, that drives me frantic. She

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burst out one day when I was
making her a visit. She had been

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reading a letter from Stephen and it
lay on her lap. She had a

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little package of his letters always near
her. I know, I returned with

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a sigh. I too had lost
my nearest and dearest. I wish I

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could consult a medium, she said, lowering her voice. How wonderful it

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would be to receive a message from
him. I could hardly bear it.

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I'm afraid. Don't do it,
Matie, I said, better leave such

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people alone the Luigi board. Then
it seems rather like a silly game.

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But I shook my head that way. Madness lives, I quoted. I

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wouldn't, Matie, Stephen lives in
your heart, in your memories of him.

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She smiled that pathetic little smile she
had worn when she wished to appear

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cheerful. You are right, she
answered, and changed the subject. In

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spite of what she had said.
I discovered that she was reading everything she

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could find about spirit communication, although
I never heard of her making any attempt

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to reach Stephen in that way.
I was very busy that fall with influenza

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cases, and Madie went into Red
crosswork, and when the epidemic was over,

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I heard she had gone to California. She returned early the following summer,

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looking haggard and ill. I prescribed
for her, but could find nothing

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really wrong with her. She took
long walks, and her mother told me

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she always went alone and resented any
offer of companionship. She thought it queer,

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and said she feared Madie was drifting
into melancholia. Madie came into my

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office one afternoon, and I was
struck with a change in her expression.

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She looked happy and young. The
strained misery had vanished from her face.

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I was puzzled. Could she have
fallen in love? I ran over in

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my mind a list of her young
men acquaintances, but none of them could

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I see as Maidie's lover. Her
mother had informed me that her walks were

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always in one direction. Thinking of
that, I asked, why do you

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always walk along the river road?
Matie? She turned a vivid pink.

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You wouldn't understand, I know,
but I'm going to tell you, she

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replied, twisting her gloves in her
hands. In the first place, you

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must know, Stephen and I used
to plan that when we were married,

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we would own a little farm,
just a little summer place, you know.

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He used to say, every man
wanted to have a farm. Doctor.

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When I go up the river road, just past the schoolhouse, on

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the bank, where the road turns
into the woods, I see a little

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farm. The fields are neat and
cultivated. The house is painted white with

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green blinds, and the door is
open into the hall as if people live

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there. Hollyhocks are growing around the
kitchen door on a table, Milk pans

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are turned up to dry in the
sun. There are some dish towels drying

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on a line. And at any
moment, I expect to see Stephen come

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around the corner of the house.
I feel he is there out of my

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sight. I wait and listen.
He hasn't come yet, but he will

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some day, and when he comes, I shall go with him. Her

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face was luminous with joy. What
could I say? What ought I to

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say? Do you think I could
see the farm if I were with you,

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I asked, speaking slowly. I'm
afraid you couldn't. She replied.

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No one knows it is there but
Stephen and me. Then, my dear

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Mattie, it exists only in your
imagination, I told her. She smiled

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as one smiles at a child who
doubts one's word, and she went away.

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I studied her case carefully. A
good psychanalyst might be able to help

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her, but I was not skillful
in that method of treatment. I see

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now that we did wrong in circumventing
her. In accordance with my advice,

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her friends attempted to divert her attention
from her daily walk. She was taken

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on automobile excursions. Visitors came at
that hour of the day. She was

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invited to go to moving pictures.
Duties were crowded upon her in the hope

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of altering the fixed idea in her
mind of Stephen's waiting at the ghost farm.

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She was very sweet about acceding to
the demands and requests, though sometimes

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she could obstinately refuse used to listen
to them. August brought hot weather.

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The extreme heat wore upon our nerves. Everybody relaxed, released from vigilant watchfulness.

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Mattie left the house unnoticed. A
terrific thunderstorm came up, and Mattie's

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mother was beside herself. She had
been lying down taking a nap when Mattie

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slipped away. She telephoned to me
when the shower was over. As Mattie

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was not missed until then, I
got out my car and started up the

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river road, a sense of foreboding
in the back of my mind. I

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had not proceeded far when a tire
blew out. Impatiently, I left the

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machine and hurried on foot past the
weather beaten old schoolhouse a short distance.

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Then Suddenly I stopped in my tracks. The sun had come out, and

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I saw the Ghost Farm cause exactly
as Matie had described it. A stretch

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of green fields, a small white
house with green blinds, hollyhocks growing by

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the kitchen door, milk pads glittering
in the sun, drying on a table,

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cowls fluttering on a line. I
was struck dumb and stood motionless,

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hardly able to draw my breath at
the strangeness of the scene. In a

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few minutes, the vision or mirage
vanished. Then I perceived a tall oak

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tree split in half by a bolt
of lightning. At the foot of the

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tree lay Matie on the wet ground, a smile of rapture on her upturned

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face. I knelt beside her and
examined hard and pulse. Nothing could be

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done. Her spirit had left its
earthly body. She had gone to be

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with Stephen. The End of the
Ghost Farm by Susan Andrews, Rice