Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like
rose-leaves. She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked
up into his old withered face.

"Poor, poor Ghost," she murmured; "have you no place where you can
sleep?"

[Illustration: "'POOR, POOR GHOST,' SHE MURMURED; 'HAVE YOU NO PLACE
WHERE YOU CAN SLEEP?'"]

"Far away beyond the pine-woods," he answered, in a low, dreamy voice,
"there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there
are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale
sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal
moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the
sleepers."

Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

"You mean the Garden of Death," she whispered.

"Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth,
with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have
no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at
peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's
house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death
is."

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments
there was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.