the fissures and crevices.
It was very well for a while; the young trees shot up like spires,
and the roots bored down into the granite. But at last they could
go no further, and then the wood was filled with an ill-concealed
peevishness. It wished to go high, but also deep. After the way
down had been closed to it, it felt that life was not worth living.
Every spring it was ready to throw off the burden of life in its
discouragement. During the summer when Edith was dying, the young
wood was quite brown. High above the town of flowers stood a gloomy
row of dying trees.

But up on the mountain it is not all gloom and the agony of death.
As one walks between the brown trees, in such distress that one is
ready to die, one catches glimpses of green trees. The perfume of
flowers fills the air; the song of birds exults and calls. Then
thoughts rise of the sleeping forest and of the paradise of the
fairy-tale, encircled by thorny thickets. And when one comes at
last to the green, to the flower fragrance, to the song of the
birds, one sees that it is the hidden graveyard of the little town.

The home of the dead lies in an earth-filled hollow in the mountain
plateau. And there, within the grey stone walls, the knowledge and
weariness of life end. Lilacs stand at the entrance, bending under
heavy clusters. Lindens and beeches spread a lofty arch of
luxuriant growth over the whole place. Jasmines and roses blossom
freely in that consecrated earth. Over the big old tombstones creep
vines of ivy and periwinkle.

There is a corner where the pine-trees grow mast-high. Does it not
seem as if the young wood outside ought to be ashamed at the sight
of them? And there are hedges there, quite grown beyond their
keeper's hands, blooming and sending forth shoots without thought
of shears or knife.

The town now has a new burial-place, to which the dead can come
without special trouble. It was a weary way for them to be carried
up in winter, when the steep wood-paths are covered with ice, and
the steps slippery and covered with snow. The coffin creaked; the
bearers panted; the old clergyman leaned heavily on the sexton and
the grave-digger. Now no one has to be buried up there who does not
ask it.

The graves are not beautiful. There are few who know how to make
the resting-place of the dead attractive. But the fresh green sheds
its peace and beauty over them all. It is strangely solemn to know
that those who are buried are glad to