A  discoloration  of  the  ice  attracted  my  attention,  and  as  I
looked  it  seemed  to  retreat  into  the  solid  mass.  There  was
something  not  ice  within  it  which  grew  more  and  more  distinct
as  I  gazed,  until  at  last  I  plainly  distinguished  the  form  of
my  grandmother,  lying  as  then  when  my  aunt  made  me  touch
her  face.  A  few  yards  further  on  lay  the  body  of  my  uncle,
as  I  saw  him  in  his  coffin.  His  face  was  dead  white  in  the
midst  of  the  cold,  clear  ice,  his  eyes  closed,  and  his  arms
straight  by  his  sides.  He  lay  like  an  alabaster  king  upon  his
tomb.  It  was  he,  I  thought,  but  he  would  never  speak  to  me
more — never  look  at  me — never  more  awake.  There  lay  all
that  was  left  of  him — the  cold  frozen  memory  of  what  he  had
been  and  would  never  be  again.  I  did  not  weep.  I  only
knew  somehow  in  my  dream  that  life  was  all  a  wandering  in
a  frozen  cave,  where  the  faces  of  the  living  were  dark  with
the  coming  corruption,  and  the  memories  of  the  dead,  cold
and  clear  and  hopeless  evermore,  alone  were  lovely.
I  walked  further ;  for  the  ice  might  possess  yet  more  of  the
past — all  that  was  left  me  of  life.  And  again  I  stood  and
gazed,  for,  deep  within,  I  saw  the  form  of  Charley — at  rest
now,  his  face  bloodless,  but  not  so  death-like  as  my  uncle's.
