seen some flowers and little shrubs about,' the child rejoined;
'there are some over there, you see. I thought they were of your
rearing, though indeed they grow but poorly.'

'They grow as Heaven wills,' said the old man; 'and it kindly ordains
that they shall never flourish here.'

'I do not understand you.'

'Why, this it is,' said the sexton. 'They mark the graves of those who
had very tender, loving friends.'

'I was sure they did!' the child exclaimed. 'I am very glad to know
they do!'

'Aye,' returned the old man, 'but stay. Look at them. See how they
hang their heads, and droop, and wither. Do you guess the reason?'

'No,' the child replied.

'Because the memory of those who lie below, passes away so soon. At
first they tend them, morning, noon, and night; they soon begin to come
less frequently; from once a day, to once a week; from once a week to
once a month; then, at long and uncertain intervals; then, not at all.
Such tokens seldom flourish long. I have known the briefest summer
flowers outlive them.'

'I grieve to hear it,' said the child.

'Ah! so say the gentlefolks who come down here to look about them,'
returned the old man, shaking his head, 'but I say otherwise. "It's a
pretty custom you have in this part of the country," they say to me
sometimes, "to plant the graves, but it's melancholy to see these
things all withering or dead." I crave their pardon and tell them that,
as I take it, 'tis a good sign for the happiness of the living. And so
it is. It's nature.'

'Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day, and to the
stars by night, and to think that the dead are there, and not in
graves,' said the child in an earnest voice.

'Perhaps so,' replied the old man doubtfully. 'It may be.'

'Whether it be as I believe it is, or no,' thought the child within
herself, 'I'll make this place my garden. It will be no harm at least
to work here day by day, and pleasant thoughts will come of it, I am
sure.'

Her glowing cheek and moistened eye passed unnoticed by the sexton, who
turned towards old David, and called him by his name. It was plain
that Becky Morgan's age still troubled him; though why, the child could
scarcely understand.

The second or third repetition of his name attracted the old man's
attention. Pausing from his work, he leant on his spade, and put his
hand to his dull ear.

'Did you call?' he said.

'I have been thinking, Davy,' replied the