It was his dead sister.

He sprang up to embrace her (for even on meeting a stranger whom we take for a dead friend, we never realise the impossibility in the half moment of surprise) but she was gone.

Mr.G.stood there, the ink wet on his pen, the cigar lighted in his hand, the name of his sister on his lips.

He had noted her expression, features, dress, the kindness of her eyes, the glow of the complexion, and what he had never seen before, _a bright red scratch on the right side of her face_.
Mr.G.took the next train home to St.Louis, and told the story to his parents.

His father was inclined to ridicule him, but his mother nearly fainted.