The sleeper moaned in his sleep, and stretched out his hand as if to
seek some other hand.
"No one--not even a word of good-bye!" he murmured.
But then the dream changed. And now it was a wild and windy day in the
blowing month of March, and the streams in this Buckinghamshire valley
were swollen, and the woods were bare. Who are these two who come into
the small and bleak church-yard? They are a mother and daughter; they
are all in black; and the face of the daughter is pale, and her eyes
filled with tears. Her face is white, and the flowers she carries are
white, and that is the white tombstone there in the corner--apart from
the others. See how she kneels down at the foot of the grave, and puts
the flowers lightly on the grass, and clasps her trembling hands, and
prays.
"_Natalie--my wife!_" he calls in his sleep.
And behold! the white tombstone has letters of fire written on it, and
the white flowers are changed to drops of blood, and the two black
figures have hurried away and disappeared. How the wind tears down this
wide valley, in which there is no sign of life.
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