She splashed the water violently over her arms, and sponged her face, repeating this many times. I waited until her ablutions were ended, and asked, "Where have you been, Geraldine?" "In the garden, digging, until my arms are tired; and now my head aches." "But what is there to dig, dear? The beds are in order." "I wanted exercise, and so I took a spade and dug. I was in a mood for digging. It pleased me to drive the sharp spade into the soft earth and fling it up all quivering. I was in a passion; and I dug a grave for my passion." "Have you been resting under the trees? There are fragments of leaves in your hair?" "I don't know how they came there. Perhaps I dashed the leaves about with my spade. Will you brush my hair out?" She seated herself before the toilet-glass. How pallid and deadly was the reflection of her face! I loosened her yellow tresses; they flowed over my arm like silk. From time to time I caught sight of her black and glittering eyes watching me; but their lashes veiled them each time I met their gaze. "I wish I could put a little colour into your marble cheeks, Geraldine. It makes me very sad to see you so pale." "I would not make my boy sad for much," she answered. "You were well when I left you; there must be some reason for this change." "No reason, no reason," she answered, sighing. "If there is any cause for your illness or for this change, if your heart is oppressed with any trouble or misgiving, if you are not perfectly happy in your mind--why will you not take me into your confidence? Is it not my privilege to share your sorrows? If you are sad and will not tell me the cause of your sadness, must I not fear that you do not think I love you well enough to deserve your confidence?" "Do I distrust your love? I do not. I am happy in your love." "If you know how well I love you you must be happy; for no one was ever loved more truly than you." "Do not talk so, Arthur. Let me feel your love, not hear it." "Is there anything in the past that grieves you to remember, Geraldine?" "Hush!" she raised her hand solemnly. "I have buried the past. It will grieve me no more." "But its ghost may walk," I said, hoping to make myself more intelligible by adopting her tone. "Tell me how I may find it, that I may bid it depart and leave you in peace." "Should it come, it will not go for you," she said, shaking her head. "Ghosts are deaf, and heed no prayers. They are spirits and have no fears. The air is full of them sometimes. I hear their voices, and when the room is dark I see their shapes. They are more white than that face," pointing to her reflection; "and they have steady un-winking eyes and long shadowy hands. Do you never see them? They often stand at the foot of the bed and watch us." "These are foolish fancies, Geraldine. See, I have brushed your hair well. Will you do it up?" She took the tresses in her hands mechanically and bound them in the fashion she wore them.