he hill-side to the cemetery gate. Dismounting she fastened the reins to
one of the iron spikes, and, gathering the folds of her habit over her
arm, carried her flowers to the family burying-ground. It was a large
square lot, enclosed by a handsome railing and tall gate, bearing the name
of "Huntingdon" in silver letters. As she approached, she was surprised to
find a low brick wall and beautiful new marble monument close to her
father's lot, and occupying a space which had been filled with grass and
weeds a few weeks previous.

As she passed the new lot the gate swung open, and Russell stood before
her.

"Good evening, Miss Huntingdon."

"Good evening, Mr. Aubrey."

The name sounded strange and harsh as she uttered it, and involuntarily she
paused and held out her hand. He accepted it; for an instant the cold
fingers lay in his warm palm, and as she withdrew them he said, in the rich
mellow voice which she had heard in the church--

"Allow me to show you my mother's monument."

He held the gate open, and she entered and stood at his side. The monument
was beautiful in its severe simplicity--a pure faultless shaft, crowned
with a delicately chiselled wreath of poppy leaves, and bearing these words
in gilt letters: "Sacred to the memory of my mother, Amy Aubrey." Just
below, in black characters, "_Resurgam_"; and underneath the whole, on a
finely fluted scroll, the inscription of St. Gilgen. After a silence of
some moments Russell pointed to the singular and solemn words, and said, as
if speaking rather to himself than to her--

"I want to say always, with Paul Flemming, 'I will be strong,' and
therefore I placed here the inscription which proved an evangel to him,
that when I come to my mother's grave I may be strengthened, not melted, by
the thronging of bitter memories."

She looked up as he spoke, and the melancholy splendour of the deep eyes
stirred her heart as nothing had ever done before.

"I have a few flowers left; let me lay them as an affectionate tribute, an
'_in memoriam_' on your mother's tomb--for the olden time, the cottage
days, are as fresh in my recollection as in yours."

She held out a woodland bouquet which she had previously gathered; he took
it, and strewed the blossoms along the broad base of the shaft, reserving
only a small cluster of the rosy china cups. Both were silent; but as she
turned to go, a sudden gust blew her hat from her head, the loosened comb
fell upon the grass, and d