"I should not like a cold, stone grave for my beautiful wife," said Lord Charlewood. "She was so fair, so spirituelle, she loved all nature so dearly; she loved the flowers, trees, and the free fresh air of heaven. Let her be where she can have them all now."
The doctor looked up with mild reproach in his eyes.
"She has something far better than the flowers of this world," he said. "If ever a dead face told of rest and peace, hers does; I have never seen such a smile on any other."
"I should like to find her a grave where the sun shines and the dew falls," observed Lord Charlewood--"where grass and flowers grow and birds sing in the trees overhead. She would not seem so far away from me then."
"You can find many such graves in the pretty church-yard here in Castledene," said the doctor.
"In time to come," continued Lord Charlewood, "she shall have the grandest marble monument that can be raised, but now a plain white cross will be sufficient, with her name, Madaline Charlewood; and, doctor, while I am away you will have the grave attended to--kept bright with flowers--tended as for some one that you loved."
Then they went out together to the green church-yard at the foot of the hill, so quiet, so peaceful, so calm, and serene, that death seemed robbed of half its terrors; white daisies and golden buttercups studded it, the dense foliage of tall lime-trees rippled above it. The graves were covered with richly-hued autumn flowers; all was sweet, calm, restful. There was none of earth's fever here. The tall gray spire of the church rose toward, the clear blue sky.
Lord Charlewood stood looking around him in silence.
"I have seen such a scene in pictures," he said. "I have read of such in poems, but it is the first I have really beheld. If my darling could have chosen for herself, she would have preferred to rest here."
On the western slope, where the warmest and brightest sun beams lay, under the shade of the rippling lime-trees, they laid Lady Charlewood to rest. For long years afterward the young husband was to carry with him the memory of that green grassy grave. A plain white cross bore for the present her name; it said simply: