there--only
distinguishable from the surrounding _terrain_ by some oblong
elevations, having the well-known configuration of graves. There are in
all about a score of them; some having a plain head-board--a piece of
painted plank, with letters rudely limned, recording the name and age of
him or her resting underneath.

Time and the weather have turned most of them greyish, with dates
decayed, and names scarcely legible. But there is one upon which the
paint shows fresh and white; in the clear moonlight gleaming like a
meteor.

He who has explored the deserted dwelling, stands for a while with eyes
directed on this recently erected memorial. Then, stepping down from
the porch, he passes through the wicket-gate; crosses the road; and goes
straight towards it, as though a hand beckoned him thither.

When close up, he sees it to be by a grave upon which the herbage has
not yet grown.

The night is a cold one--chill for that Southern clime. The dew upon
the withered grass of the grave turf is almost congealed into hoar
frost, adding to its ghostly aspect.

The lettering upon the head-board is in shadow, the moon being on the
opposite side.

But stooping forward, so as to bring his eyes close to the slab, he is
enabled to decipher the inscription.

It is the simplest form of memento--only a name, with the date of
death--

"Caroline Clancy,
Died January 18--"

After reading it, a fresh sob bursts from his bosom, new tears start
from his eyes, and he flings himself down upon the grave. Disregarding
the dew, thinking nought of the night's dullness, he stretches his arms
over the cold turf, embracing it as though it were the warm body of one
beloved!

For several minutes he remains in this attitude. Then, suddenly rising
erect, as if impelled by some strong purpose, there comes from his lips,
poured forth in wild passionate accent, the speeches:--

"Mother! dear mother! I am still living! I am here! And you, dead!
No more to know--no more hear me! O God!"

They are the words of one frantic with grief, scarce knowing what he
says.

Presently, sober reason seems to assert itself, and he again resumes
speech; but now with voice, expression of features, attitude, everything
so changed, that no one, seeing him the moment before, would believe it
the same man.

Upon his countenance sternness has replaced sorrow; the soft lines have
become rigid; the melancholy glance is gone, replaced by one that tell