The color of the moonlight in this climate is of a mellow amber—­so I cannot understand why that pallid ray that visits me so often, should be green—­a livid, cold, watery green; and in it, like a lily in an emerald pool, I see a little white hand on which the jewels cluster thick like drops of dew!  The hand moves—­it lifts itself—­ the small fingers point at me threateningly—­they quiver—­and then—­ they beckon me slowly, solemnly, commandingly onward!—­onward!—­to some infinite land of awful mysteries where Light and Love shall dawn for me no more.

The End