antic part of the cemetery, and there he had
both parents placed, in one wide grave, with the box of treasures
between them, and above them a large white cross with a simple
inscription. The lot was fenced around with a hawthorn hedge, and here
and there a rose bush grew luxuriantly. There was room for himself and
for the old grandmother who was now terribly decrepit, so that she was
unable to take any care of the house, and Patrick Marsh had consented to
let his little shanty and come, with good Molly his wife, to look after
the lad's comfort, for they had no child, and Archie was nearer to them
than any living being. Good Molly was of rough and ungainly exterior,
but within, the very impersonation of tenderness and love, and this
happy and blessed temperament had gained for her so flattering an
appellation wherever she was known. Little children would gather around
her in the street and hold on by her apron or gown, fondling and
caressing her hands, and even her feet, as if she were some good
angel--and so indeed was she to many a lone and forsaken one, who had
found care, and food, and shelter, beneath her lowly but hospitable
roof. It wasn't strange then that, with such a heart, Good Molly should
consent to leave the home that was endeared to her by a thousand
associations in order to watch over the failing and imbecile old woman
and her diseased and lonely grandson.

Neither she nor Patrick felt themselves competent to mingle in the
youth's higher and holier sympathies; they were conscious that they were
of altogether a different mold; but there were bodily wants that none
knew better how to meet than the nice housewife, whose skill in such
matters few could contest. The dainty bit was ever tempting, and the
linen was pure and white, and the neat chamber inviting even to the most
fastidious taste, so that there would have been nothing wanting to
Archie's comfort or joy were it not for the void that but one could
fill. "It was foolish to think of _her_!" that he so often repeated to
himself, yet think of her and dream of her he did, and all the time grew
thinner and thinner, and paler and paler, until he seemed some ghostly
shadow moving about the grounds. Five years had passed since she came
down the green slope and put her little hand in his to bid him a long
good-by. It was the summer time, and he remembers that the old elm under
which he sat was just in the fullness and glory of its foliage; the
hour, too, is di