nging back to find anyone else
there.

"Hello, boys," said Laddie huskily. "So you've come to see her grave
too?"

"Yes," said Cecil solemnly. "We--we just had to. We couldn't go to bed
without coming. Oh, isn't it lonesome without Cousin Avis?"

"She was always so good to us," said Sid.

"She used to talk to us so nice," said Cecil chokily. "But she liked
fun, too."

"Boys," said Laddie gravely, "never forget what Cousin Avis used to
say to you. Never forget that you have _got_ to grow up into men she'd
be proud of."

They went away then, the boys and their boyish uncle; and when they
had gone Nora came, stealing timidly through the shadows, starting at
the rustle of the wind in the trees.

"Oh, Avis," she whispered. "I want to see you so much! I want to tell
you all about it--about _him_. You would understand so well. He is the
best and dearest lover ever a girl had. You would think so too. Oh,
Avis, I miss you so much! There's a little shadow even on my happiness
because I can't talk it over with you in the old way. Oh, Avis, it was
dreadful to sit around the fire tonight and not see you. Perhaps you
were there in spirit. I love to think you were, but I wanted to see
you. You were always there to come home to before, Avis, dear."

Sobbing, she went away; and then came Margaret, the grave, strong
Margaret.

"Dear cousin, dear to me as a sister, it seemed to me that I must come
to you here tonight. I cannot tell you how much I miss your wise,
clear-sighted advice and judgment, your wholesome companionship. A
little son was born to me this past year, Avis. How glad you would
have been, for you knew, as none other did, the bitterness of my
childless heart. How we would have delighted to talk over my baby
together, and teach him wisely between us! Avis, Avis, your going made
a blank that can never be filled for me!"

Margaret was still standing there when the old people came.

"Father! Mother! Isn't it too late and chilly for you to be here?"

"No, Margaret, no," said the mother. "I couldn't go to my bed without
coming to see Avis's grave. I brought her up from a baby--her dying
mother gave her to me. She was as much my own child as any of you. And
oh! I miss her so. You only miss her when you come home, but I miss
her all the time--every day!"

"We all miss her, Mother," said the old father, tremulously. "She was
a good girl--Avis was a good girl. Good night, Avis!"

"'Say not good night, but in some b