crape band on his hat. Malcolm had just laid a little spray of
violets and lilies of the valley on the mound, as they waited for the
funeral procession.

"She was fond of flowers, Caleb."

"Ay, that she was, sir," brightening up. "Kit loved everything that was
bright and pretty, bless her dear heart! I hope they'll give her lots
of flowers where she's gone, and that they will let her pick them for
herself. You mind her last words to me, Mr. Herrick--'Good-bye, dad, I
am a-going to be an angel, and I mean to be a real splendid one,' and
all the time her poor throat would hardly let her speak."

"Poor little soul," murmured Malcolm compassionately; for Kit had
suffered greatly in her heroic childish fashion. "Hush, here they come,
Caleb."

Malcolm grew quite white when he saw Elizabeth looking like a widow in
her deep mourning and crape veil, leaning on Mr. Carlyon's arm. She had
chosen the two hymns that David's favourite choir-boys were to
sing--"For all the saints who from their labours rest," and "How bright
those glorious spirits shine." They were singing the last when the
breeze caught Elizabeth's veil and blew it aside, and he had a glimpse
of her face. The beauty of her expression--its patient sadness, its
calm faith--moved him strangely. "He is not here," it seemed to
say--"he has gone to a world where there are no more sorrow and
sighing, and God shall wipe away all tears." And then the boys' voices
rang sweetly through the churchyard:

"'Midst pastures green He'll lead His flock,
Where living streams appear;
And God the Lord from every eye
Shall wipe off every tear."

Malcolm lingered behind until the crowd had dispersed, and then he and
Caleb looked down at the flower-decked coffin. Loving hands had lined
the walls of the grave with grasses and spring flowers, Lent lilies and
blue hyacinths, until it looked like a green bower decked with
blossoms. Countless wreaths and crosses and rustic bunches of flowers
lay on the grass waiting until the grave was filled. Malcolm looked at
them all before he went back to town; but all that evening the
remembrance of Elizabeth's rapt, uplifted look remained with him.

"She did not know I was there," he said to himself. But he was wrong.
The very next evening he had a note from Dinah.

"Elizabeth wants me to thank you," she wrote, "for your lovely cross.
She thought it so kind of you to be there with us. We both saw you. Was
it not all peaceful a