y, rather, that the better life comes surely,--though it
comes late.

The sad-looking, yellow-topped cypress, which only seems to feel quite
at home in country burying-grounds, had kindly spread itself like a
coverlet over the grave, which already looked like a very old grave;
and the headstone was leaning a little, not to be out of the fashion
of the rest. I traced again the words of old Colonel Haverford's
pompous epitaph, and idly read some others. I remembered the old days
so vividly there; I thought of my cousin Agnes, and wished that I
could see her; and at last, as the daylight faded, I came away. When I
crossed the river, the ferry-man looked at me wonderingly, for my eyes
were filled with tears. Although we were in shadow on the water, the
last red glow of the sun blazed on the high gable-windows, just as it
did the first time I crossed over,--only a child then, with my life
before me.

I asked the ferry-man some questions, but he could tell me nothing; he
was a new-comer to that part of the country. He was sorry that the
boat was not in better order; but there were almost never any
passengers. The great house was out of repair: people would not live
there, for they said it was haunted. Oh, yes! he had heard of Lady
Ferry. She had lived to be very ancient; but she was dead.

"Yes," said I, "she is dead."

A BIT OF SHORE LIFE.

I often think of a boy with whom I made friends last summer, during
some idle, pleasant days that I spent by the sea. I was almost always
out of doors, and I used to watch the boats go out and come in; and I
had a hearty liking for the good-natured fishermen, who were lazy and
busy by turns, who waited for the wind to change, and waited for the
tide to turn, and waited for the fish to bite, and were always ready
to gossip about the weather, and the fish, and the wonderful events
that had befallen them and their friends.

Georgie was the only boy of whom I ever saw much at the shore. The few
young people there were all went to school through the hot summer days
at a little weather-beaten schoolhouse a mile or two inland. There
were few houses to be seen, at any rate, and Georgie's house was the
only one so close to the water. He looked already nothing but a
fisherman; his clothes were covered with an oil-skin suit, which had
evidently been awkwardly cut down for him from one of his father's, of
whom he was a curious little likeness. I could hardly believe that he
was twelve