Gora, like all imaginative people, had a horror of the corpse, and averted
her eyes from the head of the dead girl outlined under the veil she had
thrown over it, Gathbroke was obliged to walk backward, and as both were
extremely uncomfortable, there was no attempt at conversation until they
reached the gates of the old cemetery the great pioneers had called Lone
Mountain and their more commonplace descendants rechristened Laurel Hill.
The glare of the distant fire illuminated the silent city where a thousand
refugees slept as heavily as the dead, and as they ascended the steep path
they examined anxiously the vaults on either side. Finally Gora exclaimed:
"There! On the right."
The iron doors of a once eminent resident's last dwelling had been half
twisted from their rusty hinges. Gathbroke threw his weight on them and
they fell at his feet. He and Gora carried in the body and lifted it to an
empty shelf.
"Good!" Gora gave a long sigh of relief. "Nothing can happen to her now.
Even the entrance faces away from the fire and there is nothing but grass
in the cemetery to burn, anyhow." She held her electric torch to the
inscription above the entrance. "Better write down the name--Randolph.
There's one of the tragedies of the sixties for you! An Englishman the
hero, by the way. Nina Randolph is a handful of dust in there somewhere.
Heigho! What's the difference, anyway? Even if she'd been happy she'd be
dead by this time--or too old to have a past.
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