"It is so--so beautifully dead.

It ought to be like that," she went on thoughtfully.

"I never realized before why our cemeteries are so sad--it is because we will not let them really die--we dress them up with flowers--a kind of ghastly life in death.
But this--" They looked around them at the little white-fenced spot with its great centre cross, grey and weather-beaten, and all its smaller crosses clustering round.

There was warmth here, the warmth of sun upon a western slope.

There was life, too, the natural life of grass and vine, the cheerful noise of birds and squirrels and bees.