There could be no doubt of it， for she had been personallyknown to every youth and maiden in the party. That establishedthe thing’s identity； its character as ghost was signified by allthe customary signs—the shroud， the long， undone hair， the‘far-away look’—everything. This disquieting apparition wasstretching out its arms toward the west， as if in supplicationfor the evening star， which， certainly， was an alluring object，though obviously out of reach. As they all sat silent （so thestory goes） every member of that party of merrymakers—theyhad merrymade on coffee and lemonade only—distinctly heardthat ghost call the name ‘Joey， Joey！’ A moment later nothingwas there. Of course one does not have to believe all that.
Now， at that moment， as was afterward ascertained， Joey waswandering about in the sagebrush on the opposite side of thecontinent， near Winnemucca， in the State of Nevada. He hadbeen taken to that town by some good persons distantly relatedto his dead father， and by them adopted and tenderly cared for.
But on that evening the poor child had strayed from home andwas lost in the desert.
His after history is involved in obscurity and has gaps whichconjecture alone can fill. It is known that he was found by afamily of Piute Indians， who kept the little wretch with themfor a time and then sold him—actually sold him for money toa woman on one of the east-bound trains， at a station a longway from Winnemucca. The woman professed to have madeall manner of inquiries， but all in vain： so， being childless anda widow， she adopted him herself. At this point of his careerJo seemed to be getting a long way from the condition oforphanage； the interposition of a multitude of parents betweenhimself and that woeful state promised him a long immunityfrom its disadvantages.
Mrs. Darnell， his newest mother， lived in Cleveland， Ohio.
But her adopted son did not long remain with her. He was seenone afternoon by a policeman， new to that beat， deliberatelytoddling away from her house， and being questioned answeredthat he was “a doin’ home.” He must have travelled byrail， somehow， for three days later he was in the town ofWhiteville， which， as you know， is a long way from Blackburg.
His clothing was in pretty fair condition， but he was sinfullydirty. Unable to give any account of himself he was arrestedas a vagrant and sentenced to imprisonment in the Infants’
Sheltering Home—where he was washed.
Jo ran away from the Infants’ Sheltering Home at Whiteville—just took to the woods one day， and the Home knew him nomore for ever.
We find him next， or rather get back to him， standingforlorn in the cold autumn rain at a suburban street corner inBlackburg； and it seems right to explain now that the raindropsfalling upon him there were really not dark and gummy； theyonly failed to make his face and hands less so. Jo was indeedfearfully and wonderfully besmirched， as by the hand of anartist. And the forlorn little tramp had no shoes； his feet werebare， red， and swollen， and when he walked he limped withboth legs. As to clothing—ah， you would hardly have had theskill to name any single garment that he wore， or say by whatmagic he kept it upon him. That he was cold all over and allthrough did not admit of a doubt； he knew it himself. Anyonewould have been cold there that evening； but， for that reason，no one else was there. How Jo came to be there himself， hecould not for the flickering little life of him have told， even ifgifted with a vocabulary exceeding a hundred words. From theway he stared about him one could have seen that he had notthe faintest notion of where （nor why） he was.
Yet he was not altogether a fool in his day and generation；being cold and hungry， and still able to walk a little bybending his knees very much indeed and putting his feetdown toes first， he decided to enter one of the houses whichflanked the street at long intervals and looked so bright andwarm. But when he attempted to act upon that very sensibledecision a burly dog came browsing out and disputed his right.
Inexpressibly frightened， and believing， no doubt （with somereason， too）， that brutes without meant brutality within， hehobbled away from all the houses， and with grey， wet fields toright of him and grey， wet fields to left of him—with the rainhalf blinding him and the night coming in mist and darkness，held his way along the road that leads to Greenton. That is tosay， the road leads those to Greenton who succeed in passingthe Oak Hill Cemetery. A considerable number every year donot.
Jo did not.
They found him there the next morning， very wet， very cold，but no longer hungry. He had apparently entered the cemeterygate—hoping， perhaps， that it led to a house where there wasno dog—and gone blundering about in the darkness， fallingover many a grave， no doubt， until he had tired of it all andgiven up. The little body lay upon one side， with one soiledcheek upon one soiled hand， the other hand tucked awayamong the rags to make it warm， the other cheek washed cleanand white at last， as for a kiss from one of God’s great angels.
It was observed—though nothing was thought of it at the time，the body being as yet unidentified—that the little fellow waslying upon the grave of Hetty Parlow. The grave， however，had not opened to receive him. That is a circumstance which，without actual irreverence， one may wish had been orderedotherwise.