of an old
maid who committed suicide because she could not live in eternal doubt."

"And what did she doubt?" asked Gud.

"Her virtue."

"And why did she doubt that?"

"Because she suffered from a dual personality complicated by amnesia."

"Oh, I see," said Gud, "she wanted to know how the other half lived."

"No, no," protested the fossil collector, "she was not a sociologist but
one of the minor female poets who specialize in ballads in the romantic
manner. See, here is one of her manuscripts that she had translated so
that she could take it with her."

"Translated into what?" asked Gud.

"Into spirit language," said the paleontologist, "and if you read it you
will see for yourself how very spiritual it is."

Gud took the poem and glanced at the first line. "Pardon me," he said,
"but is there a graveyard handy?"

"As you should judge for yourself," replied the paleontologist, "from
the number of bones I have been digging up, this place itself was once a
graveyard."

"All things that were can be again," said Gud, as he turned back the
wheel of time until he came into the graveyard as it was in the days of
its prosperity.

Seeing that he was in the respectable part of the graveyard, Gud
hastened to walk down the hill to the less respectable portion.
Experience had taught him that in the part of a graveyard where rich men
are buried he was likely to be annoyed by relatives who felt they had
been cheated in the wills and were anxious to have resurrections
performed.

As Gud strolled through the disreputable portion of the cemetery he came
upon a man who was sitting on a grave and weeping bitterly.

Chapter LIX

The Gods of the Gallows ride tonight
Their shadowy faces spotted white.
The creature who watches through the bars
Hears every footfall under the stars.
The gods of the gallows need no rest--
They ride like chieftains--twelve abreast.
And now they have vanished, leaving hope,
And a thing that hangs at the end of a rope.

Under the lattice a rosebud trembles, a rosebud trembles gently....
Under the trees the shadows fall
In a silver pool by the garden wall;
Then here and there among the trees
Wind whispers rouse low litanies.
Like tiny voices of tongueless grief
That stir the silence of every leaf.
And who would know that under the lattice, under the lattice window,
Where the rosebud stirred like a startled fawn,