rays of the setting sun with what seemed to me at 

 the moment to be the most desolate effulgence. 



&quot;It looks,&quot; said Griselle, &quot;like a little old 

 graveyard.&quot; 



&quot;Yes,&quot; I replied quickly, somewhat surprised 

 that she should have seen the same sadness in it. 

 &quot; The graveyard of the race. I wonder why we 

 should both have the same idea ? &quot; 



&quot; I don t think I quite know what you mean 

 by the graveyard of the race.&quot; 



&quot; I mean that it reminds me that this is just 

 what the sun will be doing when we are all gone 



O D 



and forgotten.&quot; 



The tranquil look of wonder that passed over 

 her face as she stood there, irradiated by the same 

 yellow light, was quite childlike. 



&quot;What a strange idea,&quot; she said. 



&quot; Does not this sunshine make you melan 

 choly ? &quot; 



&quot;Not a bit. Why should it?&quot; 



&quot; I don t know, except that life itself is melan 

 choly, and Nature betrays it to us at times.&quot; 



&quot;If the sunlight made me feel that way, I am 

 sure I should want to live in the dark.&quot; 



&quot; I m afraid we do live in the dark, Griselle, 

 and the light only enhances the mystery. Tell 

 me how it makes you feel.&quot; 



&quot; Oh, I couldn t. I never thought about it. 

 It never affected me that way. Most always I 

 feel like singing in the sunshine.&quot; 



&quot; Look, in a minute it will be all sullen and 

 gray and cold. It hurries so.&quot; 



286 



