'And, Jerrie,' she went on, 'I want the grave lined with boughs from our old playing place--the four pines, you know--and many, many flowers, for I shudder at the thought of the cold earth which would chill me in my coffin.

So, heap the grave with flowers, and come often to it, and think lovingly of me, lying there alone.

I am thinking so much of that poem Harold read me long ago of poor little Alice, the May queen, who said she should hear them as they passed, with their feet above her in the long and silent grass.
Maybe the dead can't do that.

I don't know, but if they can, I shall listen for you, and be glad when you are near me, and I know I shall wait on the golden seat by the river.

Remember your promise to tell Harold that it was all a mistake.