ghost as soon as it was daylight.  Accordingly, just as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins.  On reaching the spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze.  Something had evidently happened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable attitude.  He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet!—­The Canterville Ghost.

THE GARDEN OF DEATH

‘Far away beyond the pine-woods,’ he answered, in a low dreamy voice, ’there is a little garden.  There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long.  All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.’

Virginia’s eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

‘You mean the Garden of Death,’ she whispered.

’Yes, Death.  Death must be so beautiful.  To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence.  To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow.  To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.  You can help me.  You can open for me the portals of Death’s house, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than Death is.’

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments there was silence.  She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.

Then the Ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of the wind.

‘Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?’

‘Oh, often,’ cried the little girl, looking up; ’I know it quite well.  It is painted in curious black letters, and it is difficult to read.  There are only six lines: 

   When a golden girl can win
   Prayer from out the lips of sin,
   When the barren almond bears,
   And a little child gives away its tears,
   Then shall all the house be still
   And peace come to Canterville.

But I don’t know what they mean.’

‘They mean,’ he said sadly, ’that you must weep for me for my sins, because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the Angel of Death will have mercy on me.  You will see fearful shapes in darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell cannot prevail.’