The wind wailed and sighed in the old fir-trees. Mr. Alec Davis’ tall monument gleamed whitely through the gloom. The willow beside it tossed long, writhing arms spectrally. At times, the gyrations of its boughs made it seem as if the monument were moving, too.
Carl curled himself up on the tombstone with his legs tucked under him. It wasn’t precisely pleasant to hang them over the edge of the stone. Just suppose—just suppose—bony hands should reach up out of Mr. Pollock’s grave under it and clutch him by the ankles. That had been one of Mary Vance’s cheerful speculations one time when they had all been sitting there. It returned to haunt Carl now. He didn’t believe those things; he didn’t even really believe in Henry Warren’s ghost.