nt. Here, however, her grandmother's sadness took
on a deeper tinge as she moved among the mounds that lay in the shadow of
the massive granite monument with "Whittredge" in letters of bronze at its
base.

As Martin went to work trimming the ivy under his mistress's direction,
Rosalind wandered away by herself across the hill-top, pausing now and
then to read an inscription and do a sum in subtraction, on the result of
which her interest largely depended. "Lily, born 1878, died 1888," stirred
her imagination, and she sat down to consider it at length. How old would
Lily be now if she had lived? She tried to think how her own name would
look on a stone. It was still and peaceful on that sunny hillside; it
reminded her of "Sharon's lovely rose." The idea of a grave here was not
unattractive. She was considering it pensively when her eyes fell on a
long-stemmed, creamy rose, lying not far from her on the ground. With
instant pleasure in its beauty she took it up and held it against her
cheek.

Where had it come from? Some one must have dropped it. She stood up and
looked around, but there was no one in sight. On the other side of a holly
bush, however, a number of just such roses lay on a grave. Rosalind walked
over and stooped to read the name on the low headstone. "Robert Ellis
Fair," she repeated half aloud as she laid her rose beside the others.

When she lifted her head she met the surprised gaze of a young lady, who
came across the grass with a watering-pot in her hand. She was decidedly
pretty to look at, and she smiled pleasantly as she began watering the
flowers in an iron vase.

Rosalind felt she must explain, so she said, smiling in her turn, "I found
a rose on the grass, and I thought it must belong here."

"Thank you. I suppose I dropped it. Won't you tell me who you are? I am
sure you do not live in Friendship."

"No, I am visiting my grandmother. I am Rosalind Whittredge."

A strange expression crossed the face of the young lady at this
announcement. Could it be that something displeased her? After a moment
she spoke gravely, "I think some one is looking for you," she said.

Turning, Rosalind saw Martin in the distance, and as there seemed nothing
else to do or say, she walked away. After she had gone some little
distance she could not resist looking back, and just as she did so she saw
the young lady fling something from her across the grass, and--it looked
like a rose! Could it be her rose? Rosalin