When a friend dies and is buried, there's an end of hitn. We miss hini tor a spaoe out of our daily existence ; we iuourn for hirn by degrees that becQine mercifully less ; we cling to the blessed hope that we shall be reunited in sorae more perfect, sphere ; but so far as this earth is concerned, there's an end of him. However near and dear he was, the time arrivés when he does not form a part of our daily thought ; he ceases to be even an abstraution. We go no mora with flowers and tears into the quiet cemetery ; only the rain and the snow-flakes fall there ; we leave it for the fingers of spring to deck the neglected mound. But when our friend vanishesunaccountably in the midst of a crowded city, or s;oes oif on a sea-voyage and is never beard of again, his memory has a singular tenacity. He may be to all intents Eind purposes dead to us, but we have not lost him. Tha ring of tho door-bell at midnight may be his ring ; the approaehing faotstep may be his footstep ; the unexpected letter with foreign postmarks may be from his hand. He haunts us as the dead never can. The woinan whose husband died last night may marry agaiu within a lustre of nionths. Do you suppose a wek passes by when the woinan whose husband disappeared mysteriously ten years ago does not think of him r There are moments when the opening of a door must startle her.