“I think that people make an idiotic row about dying, anyway.  It’s probably jolly good fun—­and I can’t see what difference a few years here would make if you’re going to have all eternity to play with.  Of course you’re a ghastly little heathen, and I can see you wagging a mournful head over this already—­but every time that I remember what a shocking sell the After Life (exquisite phrase!) is going to be for you, darling, I do a bit of head-wagging myself—­and it’s not precisely mournful!  I can’t wait to see your blank consternation—­and you needn’t expect any sympathy from me.  My very first words will be, ‘I told you so!’ Maybe I’ll rap them out to you with a table-leg!

“What do you think of all this Ouija Planchette rumpus, anyway?  I can’t for the life of me see why any one with a whole new world to explore should hang around chattering with this one.  I know that I’d be half mad with excitement to get at the new job, and that I’d find re-assuring the loved ones (exquisite phrase number two) a hideous bore.  Still, I can see that it would be nice from their selfish point of view!  Well, I’m no ghost yet, thank God—­nor yet are you—­but if ever I am one, I’ll show you what devotion really is.  I’ll come all the way back from heaven to play with foolish Janie, who doesn’t believe that there is one to come from.  To foolish, foolish Janie, who still will be dearer than the prettiest angel of them all, no matter how alluringly her halo may be tilted or her wings ruffled.  To Janie who, Heaven forgive him, will be all that one poor ghost has ever loved!”

Had there come to him, the radiant and the confident, a moment of terrible and shattering surprise—­a moment when he realized that there were no pretty angels with shining wings waiting to greet him—­a moment when he saw before him only the overwhelming darkness, blacker and deeper than the night would be, when she blew out the little hungry flame that was eating up the sheet that held his laughter?  Oh, gladly would she have died a thousand deaths to have spared him that moment!

“My little Greatheart, did you think that I did not know how brave you are?  You are the truest soldier of us all, and I, who am not much given to worship, am on my knees before that shy gallantry of yours, which makes what courage we poor duffers have seem a vain and boastful thing.  When I see you as I saw you last, small and white and clear and brave, I can’t think of anything but the first crocuses at White Orchards, shining out, demure and valiant, fearless of wind and storm and cold—­fearless of Fear itself.  You see, you’re so very, very brave that you make me ashamed to be afraid of poetry and sentiment and pretty words—­things of which I have a good, thumping Anglo-Saxon terror, I can tell you!  It’s because I know what a heavenly brick you are that I could have killed that statistical jackass for bothering you; but I’ll forgive him, since you say that it’s all right.