A little way off, in an open plot by itself, stood a little white rose tree, half mingled with the moonlight. Charley went up to it, stepped on the topmost twig, and stood: the bush did not even bend under him. ‘Very well,’ I answered. ‘You are dead, I confess. But now, look you here.’ I went to a red rose-bush which stood at some distance, blanched in the moon, set my foot on the top of it, and made as if I would ascend, expecting to crush it, roses and all, to the ground. But behold! I was standing on my red rose opposite Charley on his white. ‘I told you so,’ he cried, across the moonlight, and his voice sounded as if it came from the moon far away. ‘Oh Charley!’ I cried, ‘I’m so frightened!’ ‘What are you frightened at?’ ‘At you. You’re dead, you know.’ ‘It is a good thing, Wilfrid,’ he rejoined, in a tone of some reproach, ‘that I am not frightened at you for the same reason; for what would happen then?’ ‘I don’t know. I suppose you would go away and leave me alone in this ghostly light.’ ‘If I were frightened at you as you are at me, we should not be able to see each other at all. If you take courage the light will grow.’ ‘Don’t leave me, Charley,’ I cried, and flung myself from my tree towards his. I found myself floating, half reclined on the air. We met midway each in the other’s arms. ‘I don’t know where I am, Charley.’ ‘That is my father’s rectory.’ He pointed to the house, which I had not yet observed. It lay quite dark in the moonlight, for not a window shone from within. ‘Don’t leave me, Charley.’ ‘Leave you! I should think not, Wilfrid. I have been long enough without you already.’ ‘Have you been long dead, then, Charley?’ ‘Not very long. Yes, a long time. But, indeed, I don’t know. We don’t count time as we used to count it.--I want to go and see my father. It is long since I saw _him_, anyhow. Will you come?’ ‘If you think I might--if you wish it,’ I said, for I had no great desire to see Mr Osborne. ‘Perhaps he won’t care to see me.’ ‘Perhaps not,’ said Charley, with another low silvery laugh. ‘Come along.’ We glided over the grass. A window stood a little open on the second floor. We floated up, entered, and stood by the bedside of Charley’s father. He lay in a sound sleep. ‘Father! father!’ said Charley, whispering in his ear as he lay--‘it’s all right. You need not be troubled about me any more.’ Mr Osborne turned on his pillow. ‘He’s dreaming about us now,’ said Charley. ‘He sees us both standing by his bed.’ But the next moment Mr Osborne sat up, stretched out his arms towards us with the open palms outwards, as if pushing us away from him, and cried, ‘Depart from me, all evil-doers. O Lord! do I not hate them that hate thee?’