ne, had
frowned on all watching of graves, as an earthward tendency, and
enjoined the flight of faith with the spirit, rather than the yearning
for its cast-off garments.

But Sally Kittridge, being lonely, found something in her heart which
could only be comforted by visits to that grave. So she had planted
there roses and trailing myrtle, and tended and watered them; a
proceeding which was much commented on Sunday noons, when people were
eating their dinners and discussing their neighbors.

It is possible good Mrs. Kittridge might have been much scandalized by
it, had she been in a condition to think on the matter at all; but a
very short time after the funeral she was seized with a paralytic
shock, which left her for a while as helpless as an infant; and then she
sank away into the grave, leaving Sally the sole care of the old
Captain.

A cheerful home she made, too, for his old age, adorning the house with
many little tasteful fancies unknown in her mother's days; reading the
Bible to him and singing Mara's favorite hymns, with a voice as sweet as
the spring blue-bird. The spirit of the departed friend seemed to hallow
the dwelling where these two worshiped her memory, in simple-hearted
love. Her paintings, framed in quaint woodland frames of moss and
pine-cones by Sally's own ingenuity, adorned the walls. Her books were
on the table, and among them many that she had given to Moses.

"I am going to be a wanderer for many years," he said in parting, "keep
these for me until I come back."

And so from time to time passed long letters between the two
friends,--each telling to the other the same story,--that they were
lonely, and that their hearts yearned for the communion of one who could
no longer be manifest to the senses. And each spoke to the other of a
world of hopes and memories buried with her, "Which," each so constantly
said, "no one could understand but you." Each, too, was firm in the
faith that buried love must have no earthly resurrection. Every letter
strenuously insisted that they should call each other brother and
sister, and under cover of those names the letters grew longer and more
frequent, and with every chance opportunity came presents from the
absent brother, which made the little old cottage quaintly suggestive
with smell of spice and sandal-wood.

But, as we said, this is a glorious July evening,--and you may discern
two figures picking their way over those low sunken rocks, yellowed wit