t
altogether sentiment which made them sad.

A white, dusty road climbed the hill which overlooked the village on the
east, and on its brow, facing the sunrise, was the little group of
Ashurst's dead.

The blossoming grass grew long and tangled here; the gray headstones
slanted a little, or had even fallen, and some of the inscriptions were
hidden by moss. The place was full of shadowy silence, only broken by the
rustle of the leaves and small bird-cries, or, from down in the valley,
the faint tinkle of a cow-bell. Cypresses stood dark against the blue
sky, swaying a little in the soft wind, and from the top of one of them
flew suddenly a brown hawk, his shadow floating from the green dusk under
the trees out over the sunny meadow below.

The two sisters went to the graves of their father and mother first, and
laid some flowers on them, and stood a moment looking at them silently.
Their sighs were rather a reverent recognition of an old grief than real
sorrow, for it was many years ago that these two had been laid here; the
simple souls were too happy to understand the pathos of a forgotten
grief, indeed, they did not even know that they had forgotten it.

As they turned away, Miss Ruth said in a hushed voice, "It is over
by Dr. Howe's lot, sister. You can see it under that larch." So they
went towards this one new grave, stepping softly, and stopping by some
familiar name to brush away the grass that hid the inscription, or lay
a blossom against the stone. They spoke once or twice of those who lay
there, calling them by their first names, yet with that curious lowering
of the voice which shows with what dignity death has invested what was
once familiar.

They were silent as they laid their flowers on the fresh earth of Mr.
Denner's grave, over which the kindly grass had not yet thrown its veil;
and Miss Deborah stopped to put a single rose upon the sunken, mossy spot
where, forty years before, the little sister had been laid to rest. Both
the little ladies frankly wiped their eyes, though with no thought except
for the old friendship which had ended here. They would have turned to
go, then, but Miss Deborah laid her hand on Miss Ruth's arm. "Why,
sister," she said, "who is that by Mary Jeffrey's grave?"

Some one was lying upon the grass, her cheek resting against the small
marble cross at the head of the grave, and one arm thrown around it.

"It must be Helen!" answered Miss Ruth anxiously. "How imprudent!"