t was nearly ten
o'clock the following morning ere the little procession slowly entered the
yard, from which, with wonderful forethought, Mr. Middleton had ordered to
be removed some half dozen carts, corn cribs, etc. Fanny was pressing
forward to look at her unfortunate sister, when Dr. Lacey, gently but
firmly, led her away, saying, "No, Fanny, you must not see her. The sight
would haunt you for months and years." Then, as her tears fell fast, he
strove in various way to divert her mind from Julia's untimely end.

About noon a middle-aged man came to the house and asked permission to see
the body. His request was granted, but he almost immediately turned away
from the coffin, saying, by way of explanation, "I am the father of the
maniac girl who some time since escaped from Lexington, and I thought
perhaps this might be my daughter; but it is not, and even if it were I
could not recognize her."

On Mr. Middleton's farm, and not far from the house, was a small yard
which had been enclosed as a burial place for the family. On this spot
Fanny had expended much time and labor. Roses and honeysuckles ever
bloomed there for a season, while the dark evergreen and weeping willow
waved their branches and beckoned the passer-by to rest beneath their
shadow. In one corner was a tall forest maple, where Julia and Fanny often
had played, and where Fanny once, when dangerously ill in childhood, had
asked to be laid. As yet no mound had rendered that spot dearer for the
sake of the lost one who slept there, but now in the scarcely frozen
ground the ringing of the spade was heard; shovelful after shovelful of
earth was thrown up, and into that cold, damp grave, as the sun was
setting, they lowered the remains of Julia, who once little thought that
she first of all would break the turf of the family graveyard.

That night was fast merging into the hours of morning ere the sound of
Uncle Joshua's footsteps ceased, as again and again he traversed the
length and breadth of his sleeping room, occasionally stopping before the
window and peering out in the darkness toward the spot where he knew lay
that newly-made grave. Memory was busily at work, and in the events which
marked Julia's short life, oh, how much he saw for which to blame himself.
Remorse mingled in the old man's cup of affliction, and while the hot
tears rolled down his cheeks he exclaimed, "If she could only come back
and I could do it over, I'd love her more, and maybe she