of its dead.  In the dim light of the winter’s afternoon it is as though a great army of men had fallen fighting there, and had been turned to stone as they fell.  Rank upon rank they lie, with that irregularity which comes of symmetry destroyed, like columns and files of soldiers shot down in the act of advancing.  And in winter, the gray light falling upon the untrodden snow throws a pale reflection upwards against each stone, as though from the myriad sepulchres a faintly luminous vapour were rising to the outer air.  Over all, the rugged brushwood and the stunted trees intertwine their leafless branches and twigs in a thin, ghostly network of gray, that clouds the view of the farther distance without interrupting it, a forest of shadowy skeletons clasping fleshless, bony hands one with another, from grave to grave, as far as the eye can see.

The stillness in the place is intense.  Not a murmur of distant life from the surrounding city disturbs the silence.  At rare intervals a strong breath of icy wind stirs the dead branches and makes them crack and rattle against the gravestones and against each other as in a dance of death.  It is a wild and dreary place.  In the summer, indeed, the thick leafage lends it a transitory colour and softness, but in the depth of winter, when there is nothing to hide the nakedness of truth, when the snow lies thick upon the ground and the twined twigs and twisted trunks scarce cast a tracery of shadow under the sunless sky, the utter desolation and loneliness of the spot have a horror of their own, not to be described, but never to be forgotten.

Unorna walked forward in silence, choosing a path so narrow that her companion found himself obliged to drop behind and follow in her footsteps.  In the wildest part of this wilderness of death there is a little rising of the ground.  Here both the gravestones and the stunted trees are thickest, and the solitude is, if possible, even more complete than elsewhere.  As she reached the highest point Unorna stood still, turned quickly towards the Wanderer and held out both her hands towards him.

“I have chosen this place, because it is quiet,” she said, with a soft smile.

Hardly knowing why he did so, he laid his hands in hers and looked kindly down to her upturned face.

“What is it?” he asked, meeting her eyes.

She was silent, and her fingers did not unclasp themselves.  He looked at her, and saw for the hundredth time that she was very beautiful.  There was a faint colour in her cheeks, and her full lips were just parted as though a loving word had escaped them which she would not willingly recall.  Against the background of broken neutral tints, her figure stood out, an incarnation of youth and vitality.  If she had often looked weary and pale of late, her strength and freshness had returned to her now in all their abundance.  The Wanderer knew that he was watching her, and knew that he was thinking of her beauty and