That long, wearing day, with its weight of speechless grief, passed at last. The neighbors came and went. Each praised the beauty of the corpse, and inquired who had dressed it. At length the day closed, and was succeeded by a lovely twilight. Another night, with its star-fretted canopy, its queenly, slow-moving moon, its soft aromatic air and pearly dew. And another gray, hazy day-break, yet still, as before, I watched near the dead. But on the afternoon of this day, there came a long, black coffin, with its silver plate and mountings; its interior trimmings of white satin and border of lace, and within this they laid the form of young master! His pale, fair hands were crossed prayerfully upon his breast; and a fillet of fresh white buds bound his smooth brow, whilst a large bouquet lay on his breast, and the wreaths I had woven were thrown round him and over his feet. Then the lid was placed on and tightly screwed down. Then came the friends and neighbors, and a good man who read the Bible and preached a soothing and ennobling sermon. The friends gave one more look, another, a longer and more clinging kiss, then all was over. The slow procession followed after the vehicle that carried the coffin, the servants walking behind. Poor, uncared-for slaves, as we were, we paid a heart-felt tribute to his memory, and watered his new-made grave with as sincere tears as ever flowed from eyes that had looked on happier times. I lingered until long after the last shovel-full of dirt was thrown upon him. Others, even his kindred, had left the spot ere I turned away. That little narrow grave was dearer and nearer to me, as there it lay so fresh and damp, shapen smoothly with the sexton's spade, than when, several weeks after, a patrician obelisk reared its Parian head towards the blue sky. I have always looked upon grave-monuments as stony barriers, shutting out the world from the form that slowly moulders below. When the wild moss and verdant sward alone cover the grave, 'tis easy for us to imagine death only a sleep; but the grave-stone, with its carvings and frescoes, seems a sort of prison, cold and grim in its aristocratic splendor. For the grave of those whom I love, I ask no other decoration than the redundant grass, the enamelled mosaic of wild flowers, a stream rolling by with its dirge-like chime, a weeping willow, and a moaning dove. The shades of evening were falling darkly ere I left the burial-ground. There, amid the graves of his ancestors, beside the tomb of his mother, I left him sleeping pleasantly. "Life's fitful fever over," his calm soul rests well. * * * * * * *