all in a row.

'There!' he said, his old face quivering all over; 'underneath them
mounds are my dear wife and four children, all taken from me in less
than one month.'

'Did they die?' asked Roland with solemn eyes.

'The Lord took 'em. 'Twas the scarlet fever was ragin' in our village;
little Bessie, our baby, was the first one to take it. She were only
five year old, and as merry as a cricket; then Rob and Harry, big lads
o' twelve and thirteen, were stricken next, and then Nellie, her
mother's right hand; and the poor wife nursed 'em all through herself,
and just lived to see the last o' the four buried, and then she follered
them, and I were left in the empty house alone.'

Little Olive squeezed the old man's hand tightly.

'I feel as if I was going to cry,' she said. 'Why did God make them die,
Mr. Bob?'

Bob raised his face to the sky above him.

'He didn't tell me why,' he said; 'but He'll tell me one day. 'Twas just
at this time o' year they were taken. Ah, dear! That were a terrible
winter for me! It all seemed dark and drear, and not a gleam of sunshine
in sight. But thank the good Lord I got my bit o' cheer when Easter
came. And it have come reg'lar and fresh like every Easter since. Do you
mind them "ugly pots" in my window? Now you come back with me, and I'll
tell you their story. 'Tis too cold for us to be standin' here, but
don't forget my five grassy mounds in this corner when I tells the
tale!'

As the children turned away to follow him, Roland said thoughtfully,
'They're all under the ground, just like you say the flowers are!'

Old Bob smiled.

'That's it, Master Roland! That's my comfort. You've hit upon the very
thing I was agoin' to explain!'

And then a few minutes after, taking little Olive upon his knees, and
making Roland sit in a small chair on the opposite side of the
fireplace, the old man began,--

'My dear wife were powerful fond o' flowers, and she were quite as
clever at rearing 'em as ever I were. She would get cuttin's from James
Green up at the house, and in summer our garden was just a pictur.' Just
before she were a taken ill, James had sent her down a lily bulb, a
beautiful pure white one, and she'd put it in a pot in our cellar, and
says she to me, "Bob, I means to bring that lily out by Easter; with
care I'm sure I shall do it!" Then when she were near her end, and she
seed me a-frettin' my heart out, she calls me to her bed. "Bob," says
she, "take care o' my lil