he
was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would
have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears
for the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of
this child had done him good, left them alone together.

Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to
take some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And
when the day came on, which must remove her in her earthly shape from
earthly eyes for ever, he led him away, that he might not know when she
was taken from him.

They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. It was
Sunday--a bright, clear, wintry afternoon--and as they traversed the
village street, those who were walking in their path drew back to make
way for them, and gave them a softened greeting. Some shook the old
man kindly by the hand, some stood uncovered while he tottered by, and
many cried 'God help him!' as he passed along.

'Neighbour!' said the old man, stopping at the cottage where his young
guide's mother dwelt, 'how is it that the folks are nearly all in black
to-day? I have seen a mourning ribbon or a piece of crape on almost
every one.'

She could not tell, the woman said. 'Why, you yourself--you wear the
colour too?' he said. 'Windows are closed that never used to be by
day. What does this mean?'

Again the woman said she could not tell.

'We must go back,' said the old man, hurriedly. 'We must see what this
is.'

'No, no,' cried the child, detaining him. 'Remember what you promised.
Our way is to the old green lane, where she and I so often were, and
where you found us, more than once, making those garlands for her
garden. Do not turn back!'

'Where is she now?' said the old man. 'Tell me that.'

'Do you not know?' returned the child. 'Did we not leave her, but just
now?'

'True. True. It was her we left--was it?'

He pressed his hand upon his brow, looked vacantly round, and as if
impelled by a sudden thought, crossed the road, and entered the
sexton's house. He and his deaf assistant were sitting before the
fire. Both rose up, on seeing who it was.

The child made a hasty sign to them with his hand. It was the action
of an instant, but that, and the old man's look, were quite enough.

'Do you--do you bury any one to-day?' he said, eagerly.

'No, no! Who should we bury, Sir?' returned the sexton.

'Aye, who indeed! I say with you, who indeed!'

'It