IN December, 1917, my aunt, who lives in the country, stood looking
out of her window, when she saw, walking up the path leading to her
house, the figure of a man in khaki, with his kit on his back. She
instantly decided that it must be the husband of her next-door
neighbour, home on leave, and wondered why the lady had not mentioned
the matter. However, as the man approached, it was with a feeling of
great shock that she recognised her own young brother, who was an
ambulance bearer at the front. His face was drawn and ghastly, as
though he were suffering agonies. On seeing my aunt, he stretched out
his arms, and she saw, as he got nearer, that he was a shadowy
figure, and not flesh and blood. Thoroughly unnerved, she backed into
her sitting-room, followed by the form of her brother. Right around
her table she walked—still followed; then, gradually, he disappeared
from sight.
Shortly afterwards, a telegram arrived, announcing the death of this
brother, which occurred on the battlefield just before he appeared to
my aunt—his favourite sister.