“Nothing is in it,” I said, and indeed it was a bare open spot in the ring of a fence, a green slant in the stubbles.
She stared at me with strangely troubled eyes.
“It’s a little green terrace, a little sacred terrace; do you not see what is on it?” she asked of Monk.
“There is nothing in it, Mary, but maybe a hare.”
“O look again,” she cried out quickly, “Michael, there are three golden crosses there, the crosses of Calvary, only they are empty now!”
“There are no crosses there?” I said to Monk.
“There are no crosses there,” he said.
I turned to the girl; she took me in her arms and I shall feel her cold cold lips till the fall of doom.
“Michael, dear, it has been so beautiful....”
She seemed to be making a little farewell and growing vague like a ghost would be.