A Gentle Ghost

by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

Out in front of the cemetery stood a white horse and a covered wagon. The horse was not tied, but she stood quite still, her four feet widely and ponderously planted, her meek white head hanging. Shadows of leaves danced on her back. There were many trees about the cemetery, and the foliage was unusually luxuriant for May. The four women who had come in the covered wagon remarked it. “I never saw the trees so forward as they are this year, seems to me,” said one, gazing up at some magnificent gold-green branches over her head.

“I was sayin' so to Mary this mornin',” rejoined another. “They're uncommon forward, I think.”

They loitered along the narrow lanes between the lots: four homely, middle-aged women, with decorous and subdued enjoyment in their worn faces. They read with peaceful curiosity and interest the inscriptions on the stones; they turned aside to look at the tender, newly blossomed spring bushes — the flowering almonds and the bridal wreaths. Once in a while they came to a new stone, which they immediately surrounded with eager criticism. There was a solemn hush when they reached a lot where some relatives of one of the party were buried. She put a bunch of flowers on a grave, then she stood looking at it with red eyes. The others grouped themselves deferentially aloof.

They did not meet any one in the cemetery until just before they left. When they had reached the rear and oldest portion of the yard, and were thinking of retracing their steps, they became suddenly aware of a child sitting in a lot at their right. The lot held seven old leaning stones, dark and mossy, their inscriptions dimly traceable. The child sat close to one, and she looked up at the staring knot of women with a kind of innocent keenness, like a baby. Her face was small and fair and pinched. The women stood eying her.

“What's your name, little girl?” asked one. She had a bright flower in her bonnet and a smart lift to her chin, and seemed the natural spokeswoman of the party. Her name was Holmes. The child turned her head sideways and murmured something.

“What? We can't hear. Speak up; don't be afraid! What's your name?” The woman nodded the bright flower over her, and spoke with sharp pleasantness.

“Nancy Wren,” said the child, with a timid catch of her breath.

“Wren?”

The child nodded. She kept her little pink curving mouth parted.

“It's nobody I know,” remarked the questioner, reflectively. “I guess she comes from — over there.” She made a significant motion of her head toward the right. “Where do you live, Nancy?” she asked.

The child also motioned toward the right.

“I thought so,” said the woman. “How old are you?”

“Ten.”

The women exchanged glances. “Are you sure you're tellin' the truth?”

The child nodded.

“I never saw a girl so small for her age if she is,” said one woman to another.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Holmes, looking at her critically; “she is dreadful small. She's considerable smaller than my Mary was. Is there any of your folks buried in this lot?” said she, fairly hovering with affability and determined graciousness.

The child's upturned face suddenly kindled. She began speaking with a soft volubility that was an odd contrast to her previous hesitation.

“That's mother,” said she, pointing to one of the stones, “an' that's father, an' there's John, an' Marg'ret, an' Mary, an' Susan, an' the baby, and here's — Jane.”

The women stared at her in amazement. “Was it your —” began Mrs. Holmes; but another woman stepped forward, stoutly impetuous.

“Land! it's the Blake lot!” said she. “This child can't be any relation to 'em. You hadn't ought to talk so, Nancy.”

“It's so,” said the child, shyly persistent. She evidently hardly grasped the force of the woman's remark.

They eyed her with increased bewilderment. “It can't be,” said the woman to the others. “Every one of them Blakes died years ago.”

“I've seen Jane,” volunteered the child, with a candid smile in their faces.

Then the stout woman sank down on her knees beside Jane's stone and peered hard at it.

“She died forty year ago this May,” said she, with a gasp. “I used to know her when I was a child. She was ten years old when she died. You 'ain't ever seen her. You hadn't ought to tell such stories.”

“I 'ain't seen her for a long time,” said the little girl.

“What made you say you'd seen her at all?” said Mrs. Holmes, sharply, thinking this was capitulation.

“I did use to see her a long time ago, an' she used to wear a white dress, an' a wreath on her head. She used to come here an' play with me.”

The women looked at each other with pale shocked faces; one nervous; one shivered. “She ain't quite right,” she whispered. “Let's go.” The women began filing away. Mrs. Holmes, who came last, stood about for a parting word to the child.

“You can't have seen her,” said she, severely, “an' you are a wicked girl to tell such stories. You mustn't do it again, remember.”

Nancy stood with her hand on Jane's stone, looking at her. “She did,” she repeated, with mild obstinacy.

“There's somethin' wrong about her, I guess,” whispered Mrs. Holmes, rustling on after the others.

“I see she looked kind of queer the minute I set eyes on her,” said the nervous woman.

When the four reached the front of the cemetery they sat down to rest for a few minutes. It was warm, and they had still quite a walk, nearly the whole width of the yard, to the other front corner where the horse and wagon were.

They sat down in a row on a bank; the stout woman wiped her face; Mrs. Holmes straightened her bonnet. Directly opposite across the street stood two houses, so close to each other that their walls almost touched. One was a large square building, glossily white, with green blinds; the other was low, with a facing of whitewashed stone-work reaching to its lower windows, which somehow gave it a disgraced and menial air; there were, moreover, no blinds.

At the side of the low building stretched a wide ploughed field, where several halting old figures were moving about planting. There was none of the brave hope of the sower about them. Even across the road one could see the feeble stiffness of their attitudes, the half-palsied fling of their arms.

“I declare I shouldn't think them old men over there would ever get that field planted,” said Mrs. Holmes, energetically watchful. In the front door of the square white house sat a girl with bright hair. The yard was full of green light from two tall maple-trees, and the girl's hair made a brilliant spot of color in the midst of it.

“That's Flora Dunn over there on the door-step, ain't it?” said the stout woman.

“Yes. I should think you could tell her by her red hair.”

“I knew it. I should have thought Mr. Dunn would have hated to have had their house so near the poor-house. I declare I should!”

“Oh, he wouldn't mind,” said Mrs. Holmes; “he's as easy as old Tilly. It wouldn't have troubled him any if they'd set it right in his front yard. But I guess she minded some. I heard she did. John said there wa'n't any need of it. The town wouldn't have set it so near, if Mr. Dunn had set his foot down he wouldn't have it there. I s'pose they wanted to keep that big field on the side clear; but they would have moved it along a little if he'd made a fuss. I tell you what 'tis, I've 'bout made up my mind — I dun know as it's Scripture, but I can't help it — if folks don't make a fuss they won't get their rights in this world. If you jest lay still an' don't rise up, you're goin' to get stepped on. If people like to be, they can; I don't.”

“I should have thought he'd have hated to have the poor-house quite so close,” murmured the stout woman.

Suddenly Mrs. Holmes leaned forward and poked her head among the other three. She sat on the end of the row. “Say,” said she, in a mysterious whisper, “I want to know if you've heard the stories 'bout the Dunn house?”

“No; what?” chorused the other women, eagerly. They bent over toward her till the four faces were in a knot.

“Well,” said Mrs. Holmes, cautiously, with a glance at the bright-headed girl across the way — “I heard it pretty straight — they say the house is haunted.”

The stout woman sniffed and straightened herself. “Haunted!” repeated she.

“They say that ever since Jenny died there's been queer noises 'round the house that they can't account for. You see that front chamber over there, the one next to the poor-house; well, that's the room, they say.”

The women all turned and looked at the chamber windows, where some ruffled white curtains were fluttering.

“That's the chamber where Jenny used to sleep, you know,” Mrs. Holmes went on; “an' she died there. Well, they said that before Jenny died, Flora had always slept there with her, but she felt kind of bad about goin' back there, so she thought she'd take another room. Well, there was the awfulest moanin' an' takin' on up in Jenny's room, when she did, that Flora went back there to sleep.”

“I shouldn't thought she could,” whispered the nervous woman, who was quite pale.

“The moanin' stopped jest as soon as she got in there with a light. You see Jenny was always terrible timid an' afraid to sleep alone, an' had a lamp burnin' all night, an' it seemed to them jest as if it really was her, I s'pose.”

“I don't believe one word of it,” said the stout woman, getting up. “It makes me all out of patience to hear people talk such stuff, jest because the Dunns happen to live opposite a graveyard.”

“I told it jest as I heard it,” said Mrs. Holmes, stiffly.

“Oh, I ain't blamin' you; it's the folks that start such stories that I 'ain't got any patience with. Think of that dear, pretty little sixteen-year-old girl hauntin' a house!”

“Well, I've told it jest as I heard it,” repeated Mrs. Holmes, still in a tone of slight umbrage. “I don't ever take much stock in such things myself.”

The four women strolled along to the covered wagon and climbed in. “I declare,” said the stout woman, conciliatingly, “I dun know when I've had such an outin'. I feel as if it had done me good. I've been wantin' to come down to the cemetery for a long time, but it's most more'n I want to walk. I feel real obliged to you, Mis' Holmes.”

The others climbed in. Mrs. Holmes disclaimed all obligations gracefully, established herself on the front seat, and shook the reins over the white horse. Then the party jogged along the road to the village, past outlying farm-houses and rich green meadows, all freckled gold with dandelions. Dandelions were in their height; the buttercups had not yet come.

Flora Dunn, the girl on the door-step, glanced up when they started down the street; then she turned her eyes on her work; she was sewing with nervous haste.

“Who were those folks, did you see, Flora?” called her mother, out of the sitting-room.

“I didn't notice,” replied Flora, absently.

Just then the girl whom the women had met came lingeringly out of the cemetery, and crossed the street.

“There's that poor little Wren girl,” remarked the voice in the sitting-room.

“Yes,” assented Flora. After a while she got up and entered the house. Her mother looked anxiously at her when she came into the room.

“I'm all out of patience with you, Flora,” said she. “You're jest as white as a sheet. You'll make yourself sick. You're actin' dreadful foolish.”

Flora sank into a chair and sat staring straight ahead with a strained, pitiful gaze. “I can't help it; I can't do any different,” said she. “I shouldn't think you'd scold me, mother.”

“Scold you; I ain't scoldin' you, child; but there ain't any sense in your doin' so. You'll make yourself sick, an' you're all I've got left. I can't have anything happen to you, Flora.” Suddenly Mrs. Dunn burst out in a low wail, hiding her face in her hands.

“I don't see as you're much better yourself, mother,” said Flora, heavily.

“I don't know as I am,” sobbed her mother; “but I've got you to worry about besides — everything else. Oh dear! oh dear, dear!”

“I don't see any need of your worrying about me.” Flora did not cry, but her face seemed to darken visibly with a gathering melancholy like a cloud. Her hair was beautiful, and she had a charming delicacy of complexion; but she was not handsome, her features were too sharp, her expression too intense and nervous. Her mother looked like her as to the expression; the features were widely different. It was as if both had passed through one corroding element which had given them the similarity of scars. Certainly a stranger would at once have noticed the strong resemblance between Mrs. Dunn's large, heavy-featured face and her daughter's thin, delicately outlined one — a resemblance which three months ago had not been perceptible.

“I see, if you don't,” returned the mother. “I ain't blind.”

“I don't see what you are blaming me for.”

“I ain't blamin' you, but it seems to me that you might jest as well let me go up there an' sleep as you.”

Suddenly the girl also broke out into a wild cry. “I ain't going to leave her. Poor little Jenny! poor little Jenny! You needn't try to make me, mother; I won't!”

“Flora, don't!”

“I won't! I won't! I won't! Poor little Jenny! Oh dear! oh dear!”

“What if it is so? What if it is — her? 'Ain't she got me as well as you? Can't her mother go to her?”

“I won't leave her. I won't! I won't!”

Suddenly Mrs. Dunn's calmness seemed to come uppermost, raised in the scale by the weighty impetus of the other's distress. “Flora,” said she, with mournful solemnity, “you mustn't do so; it's wrong. You mustn't wear yourself all out over something that maybe you'll find out wasn't so some time or other.”

“Mother, don't you think it is — don't you?”

“I don't know what to think, Flora.” Just then a door shut somewhere in the back part of the house. “There's father,” said Mrs. Dunn, getting up; “an' the fire ain't made.”

Flora rose also, and went about helping her mother to get supper. Both suddenly settled into a rigidity of composure; their eyes were red, but their lips were steady. There was a resolute vein in their characters; they managed themselves with wrenches, and could be hard even with their grief. They got tea ready for Mr. Dunn and his two hired men; then cleared it away, and sat down in the front room with their needle-work. Mr. Dunn, a kindly, dull old man, was in there too, over his newspaper. Mrs. Dunn and Flora sewed intently, never taking their eyes from their work. Out in the next room stood a tall clock, which ticked loudly; just before it struck the hours it made always a curious grating noise. When it announced in this way the striking of nine, Mrs. Dunn and Flora exchanged glances; the girl was pale, and her eyes looked larger. She begun folding up her work. Suddenly a low moaning cry sounded through the house, seemingly from the room overhead. “There it is!” shrieked Flora. She caught up a lamp and ran. Mrs. Dunn was following, when her husband, sitting near the door, caught hold of her dress with a bewildered air; he had been dozing. “What's the matter?” said he, vaguely.

“Didn't you hear it? Didn't you hear it, father?”

The old man let go of her dress suddenly. “I didn't hear nothin',” said he.

“Hark!”

But the cry had in fact ceased. Flora could be heard moving about in the room overhead, and that was all. In a moment Mrs. Dunn ran upstairs after her. The old man sat staring. “It's all dum foolishness,” he muttered, under his breath. Presently he fell to dozing again, and his vacantly smiling face lopped forward. Mr. Dunn, slow-brained, patient, and unimaginative, had had his evening naps interrupted after this manner for the last three months, and there was as yet no cessation of his bewilderment. He dealt with the simple, broad lights of life; the shadows were beyond his speculation. For his consciousness his daughter Jenny had died and gone to heaven; he was not capable of listening for her ghostly moans in her little chamber overhead, much less of hearing them with any credulity.

When his wife came down-stairs finally she looked at him, sleeping there, with a bitter feeling. She felt as if set about by an icy wind of loneliness. Her daughter, who was after her own kind, was all the one to whom she could look for sympathy and understanding in this subtle perplexity which had come upon her. And she would rather have dispensed with that sympathy, and heard alone these piteous uncanny cries, for she was wild with anxiety about Flora. The girl had never been very strong. She looked at her distressfully when she came down the next morning.

“Did you sleep any last night?” said she.

“Some,” answered Flora.

Soon after breakfast they noticed the little Wren girl stealing across the road to the cemetery again. “She goes over there all the time,” remarked Mrs. Dunn. “I b'lieve she runs away. See her look behind her.”

“Yes,” said Flora, apathetically.

It was nearly noon when they heard a voice from the next house calling, “Nancy! Nancy! Nancy Wren!” The voice was loud and imperious, but slow and evenly modulated. It indicated well its owner. A woman who could regulate her own angry voice could regulate other people. Mrs. Dunn and Flora heard it understandingly.

“That poor little thing will catch it when she gets home,” said Mrs. Dunn.

“Nancy! Nancy! Nancy Wren!” called the voice again.

“I pity the child if Mrs. Gregg has to go after her. Mebbe she's fell asleep over there. Flora, why don't you run over there an' get her?”

The voice rang out again. Flora got her hat and stole across the street a little below the house, so the calling woman should not see her. When she got into the cemetery she called in her turn, letting out her thin sweet voice cautiously. Finally she came directly upon the child. She was in the Blake lot, her little slender body, in its dingy cotton dress, curled up on the ground close to one of the graves. No one but Nature tended those old graves now, and she seemed to be lapsing them gently back to her own lines, at her own will. Of the garden shrubs which had been planted about them not one was left but an old low-spraying white rose-bush, which had just gotten its new leaves. The Blake lot was at the very rear of the yard, where it verged upon a light wood, which was silently stealing its way over its own proper boundaries. At the back of the lot stood a thicket of little thin trees, with silvery-twinkling leaves. The ground was quite blue with houstonias.

The child raised her little fair head and stared at Flora, as if just awakened from sleep. She held her little pink mouth open, her innocent blue eyes had a surprised look, as if she were suddenly gazing upon a new scene.

“Where's she gone?” asked she, in her sweet, feeble pipe.

“Where's who gone?”

“Jane.”

“I don't know what you mean. Come, Nancy, you must go home now.”

“Didn't you see her?”

“I didn't see anybody,” answered Flora, impatiently. “Come!”

“She was right here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jane was standin' right here. An' she had her white dress on, an' her wreath.”

Flora shivered, and looked around her fearfully. The fancy of the child was overlapping her own nature. “There wasn't a soul here. You've been dreaming, child. Come!”

“No, I wasn't. I've seen them blue flowers an' the leaves winkin' all the time. Jane stood right there.” The child pointed with her tiny finger to a spot at her side. “She hadn't come for a long time before,” she added. “She's stayed down there.” She pointed at the grave nearest her.

“You mustn't talk so,” said Flora, with tremulous severity. “You must get right up and come home. Mrs. Gregg has been calling you and calling you. She won't like it.”

Nancy turned quite pale around her little mouth, and sprang to her feet. “Is Mis' Gregg comin'?”

“She will come if you don't hurry.”

The child said not another word. She flew along ahead through the narrow paths, and was in the almshouse door before Flora crossed the street.

“She's terrible afraid of Mrs. Gregg,” she told her mother when she got home. Nancy had disturbed her own brooding a little, and she spoke more like herself.

“Poor little thing! I pity her,” said Mrs. Dunn. Mrs. Dunn did not like Mrs. Gregg.

Flora rarely told a story until she had ruminated awhile over it herself. It was afternoon, and the two were in the front room at their sewing, before she told her mother about “Jane.”

“Of course she must have been dreaming,” Flora said.

“She must have been,” rejoined her mother.

But the two looked at each other, and their eyes said more than their tongues. Here was a new marvel, new evidence of a kind which they had heretofore scented at, these two rigidly walking New England souls; yet walking, after all, upon narrow paths through dark meadows of mysticism. If they never lost their footing, the steaming damp of the meadows might come in their faces.

This fancy, delusion, superstition, whichever one might name it, of theirs had lasted now three months — ever since young Jenny Dunn had died. There was apparently no reason why it should not last much longer, if delusion it were; the temperaments of these two women, naturally nervous and imaginative, overwrought now by long care and sorrow, would perpetuate it.

If it were not delusion, pray what exorcism, what spell of book and bell, could lay the ghost of a little timid child who was afraid alone in the dark?

The days went on, and Flora still hurried up to her chamber at the stroke of nine. If she were a moment late, sometimes if she were not, that pitiful low wail sounded through the house.

The strange story spread gradually through the village. Mrs. Dunn and Flora were silent about it, but Gossip is herself of a ghostly nature, and minds not keys nor bars.

There was quite an excitement over it. People affected with morbid curiosity and sympathy came to the house. One afternoon the minister came and offered a prayer. Mrs. Dunn and Flora received them all with a certain reticence; they did not concur in their wishes to remain and hear the mysterious noises for themselves. People called them “dreadful close.” They got more satisfaction out of Mr. Dunn, who was perfectly ready to impart all the information in his power and his own theories in the matter.

“I never heard a thing but once,” said he, “an' then it sounded more like a cat to me than anything. I guess mother and Flora air kinder nervous.”

The spring was waxing late when Flora went upstairs one night with the oil low in her lamp. She had neglected filling it that day. She did not notice it until she was undressed; then she thought to herself that she must blow it out. She always kept a lamp burning all night, as she had in timid little Jenny's day. Flora herself was timid now.

So she blew the light out. She had barely laid her head upon the pillow when the low moaning wail sounded through the room. Flora sat up in bed and listened, her hands clinched. The moan gathered strength and volume; little broken words and sentences, the piteous ejaculations of terror and distress, began to shape themselves out of it.

Flora sprang out of bed, and stumbled toward her west window — the one on the almshouse side. She leaned her head out, listening a moment. Then she called her mother with wild vehemence. But her mother was already at the door with a lamp. When she entered, the moans ceased.

“Mother,” shrieked Flora, “it ain't Jenny. It's somebody over there — at the poor-house. Put the lamp out in the entry, and come back here and listen.”

Mrs. Dunn set out the lamp and came back, closing the door. It was a few minutes first, but presently the cries recommenced.

“I'm goin' right over there,” said Mrs. Dunn. “I'm goin' to dress myself an' go over there. I'm goin' to have this affair sifted now.”

“I'm going too,” said Flora.

It was only half past nine when the two stole into the almshouse yard. The light was not out in the room on the ground-floor, which the overseer's family used for a sitting-room. When they entered, the overseer was there asleep in his chair, his wife sewing at the table, and an old woman in a pink cotton dress, apparently doing nothing. They all started, and stared at the intruders.

“Good-evenin',” said Mrs. Dunn, trying to speak composedly. “We thought we'd come in; we got kind of started. Oh, there 'tis now! What is it, Mis' Gregg?”

In fact, at that moment, the wail, louder and more distinct, was heard.

“Why, it's Nancy,” replied Mrs. Gregg, with dignified surprise. She was a large woman, with a masterly placidity about her. “I heard her a few minutes ago,” she went on; “an' I was goin' up there to see to her if she hadn't stopped.”

Mr. Gregg, a heavy, saturnine old man, with a broad bristling face, sat staring stupidly. The old woman in pink calico surveyed them all with an impersonal grin.

“Nancy!” repeated Mrs. Dunn, looking at Mrs. Gregg. She had not fancied this woman very much, and the two had not fraternized, although they were such near neighbors. Indeed, Mrs. Gregg was not of a sociable nature, and associated very little with anything but her own duties.

“Yes; Nancy Wren,” she said, with gathering amazement. “She cries out this way 'most every night. She's ten years old, but she's as afraid of the dark as a baby. She's a queer child. I guess mebbe she's nervous. I don't know but she's got notions into her head, stayin' over in the graveyard so much. She runs away over there every chance she can get, an' she goes over a queer rigmarole about playin' with Jane, and her bein' dressed in white an' a wreath. I found out she meant Jane Blake, that's buried in the Blake lot. I knew there wa'n't any children round here, an' I thought I'd look into it. You know it says ‘Our Father,’ an' ‘Our Mother,’ on the old folks' stones. An' there she was, callin' them father an' mother. You'd thought they was right there. I've got 'most out o' patience with the child. I don't know nothin' about such kind of folks.” The wail continued. “I'll go right up there,” said Mrs. Gregg, determinately, taking a lamp.

Mrs. Dunn and Flora followed. When they entered the chamber to which she led them they saw little Nancy sitting up in bed, her face pale and convulsed, her blue eyes streaming with tears, her little pink mouth quivering.

“Nancy” — began Mrs. Gregg, in a weighty tone. But Mrs. Dunn sprang forward and threw her arms around the child.

“You got frightened, didn't you?” whispered she; and Nancy clung to her as if for life.

A great wave of joyful tenderness rolled up in the heart of the bereaved woman. It was not, after all, the lonely and fearfully wandering little spirit of her dear Jenny; she was peaceful and blessed, beyond all her girlish tumults and terrors; but it was this little living girl. She saw it all plainly now. Afterward it seemed to her that any one but a woman with her nerves strained, and her imagination unhealthily keen through watching and sorrow, would have seen it before.

She held Nancy tight, and soothed her. She felt almost as if she held her own Jenny. “I guess I'll take her home with me, if you don't care,” she said to Mrs. Gregg.

“Why, I don't know as I've got any objections, if you want to,” answered Mrs. Gregg, with cold stateliness. “Nancy Wren has had everything done for her that I was able to do,” she added, when Mrs. Dunn had wrapped up the child, and they were all on the stairs. “I 'ain't coaxed an' cuddled her, because it ain't my way. I never did with my own children.”

“Oh, I know you've done all you could,” said Mrs. Dunn, with abstracted apology. “ I jest thought I'd like to take her home to-night. Don't you think I'm blamin' you, Mis' Gregg.” She bent down and kissed the little tearful face on her shoulder: she was carrying Nancy like a baby. Flora had hold of one of her little dangling hands.

“You shall go right upstairs an' sleep with Flora,” Mrs. Dunn whispered in the child's ear when they were going across the yard; “an' you shall have the lamp burnin' all night, an' I'll give you a piece of cake before you go.”

It was the custom of the Dunns to visit the cemetery and carry flowers to Jenny's grave every Sunday afternoon. Next Sunday little Nancy went with them. She followed happily along, and did not seem to think of the Blake lot. That pitiful fancy, if fancy it were, which had peopled her empty childish world with ghostly kindred, which had led into it an angel playmate in white robe and crown, might lie at rest now. There was no more need for it. She had found her place in a nest of living hearts, and she was getting her natural food of human love.

They had dressed Nancy in one of the little white frocks which Jenny had worn in her childhood, and her hat was trimmed with some ribbon and rose-buds which had adorned one of the dead young girl's years before.

It was a beautiful Sunday. After they left the cemetery they strolled a little way down the road. The road lay between deep green meadows and cottage yards. It was not quite time for the roses, and the lilacs were turning gray. The buttercups in the meadows had blossomed out, but the dandelions had lost their yellow crowns, and their filmy skulls appeared. They stood like ghosts among crowds of golden buttercups; but none of the family thought of that; their ghosts were laid in peace.