"I think they are, Stephie," she said; "they did not have to tread far on life's rough ways; their little feet reached the garden long, long years ago." "And there will be soft grass for them to walk on there," said Stephen, "Maybe I'll see them when I get there. Do you think I'll know them, Granny Robin?" "I think you will, Stephie; I feel almost sure you will," she said. "If I see any very dear little children playing under the trees of the garden," said little Stephen, "I might ask them, 'Are you the two grandchildren who died young?' And then they could tell me, couldn't they?" "God bless you, my dear little lad!" was all the answer Granny Robin gave him. The next day was Saturday, which was market-day in the old city. It was Audrey's holiday, and the happiest day in the week to Stephen and to herself. Aunt Cordelia was always busy cleaning from morning till night, and sent Audrey into the churchyard, that she might be out of the way of her sweeping-brush and dust-pan. On this particular Saturday, Audrey and Stephen were whispering together under the lilac tree for a very long time; and about ten minutes afterwards, Mr. Robin, who was smoking his pipe in the window, saw a sight which made him laugh so much, that for a long time he could not tell Granny Robin at what he was laughing. As he looked across the churchyard, he saw Audrey and Stephen coming towards the window arm in arm. Stephen was dressed in the tall hat which his father wore when he went to chapel on Sunday night, and in an old greatcoat, which was fastened round his neck, and dragged like a long tail behind him, whilst the sleeves were turned up so far that there was far more lining than cloth to be seen. Audrey had a red shawl thrown over her head, and her pinafore was tied round her waist like an apron. Each child carried a tin, on which old Mr. Robin distinctly read the words "Colman's Mustard." As soon as they came up to the window both children made a low bow, but neither of them spoke. "Well, what do you want?" said Mr. Robin, as gravely as he could. "Are you going round begging this fine spring morning?" "Please, sir, we're making a collection," said Audrey. "Yes, it's a collection," echoed little Stephen. "What's it for, my little dears?" said Granny Robin, as she laid down her knitting, and began to put her hand into her pocket. "Mine's for the TWO GRANDCHILDREN WHO DIED YOUNG," said little Stephen. "And mine's for ALL THAT WAS MORTAL OF JOHN HUTTON," said Audrey. "Oh, I see," said the old woman; "you want to go and get some roots in the market for your graves—is that it?" That is it, and Granny Robin's hand must go in the pocket again. It goes in empty, but it comes out well filled. Three pennies for the grandchildren go into Stephen's tin, and three more for John Hutton go rattling to the bottom of Audrey's.