The names on the three little stones were Emeline, Frank, Jr., and Clarissa. Weeds and tall grass had begun to sprout about the tombstones in the old churchyard. Carolyn May pulled the unsightly weeds from about the little, lozenge-shaped stones and about the taller one, and she dug out a mullen plant that grew on one of the graves. While she was thus engaged, a tall man in black—looking rather “weedy” himself, if the truth were told—came across the graveyard and stood beside her. He wore a broad band of crêpe around his hat and on his arm, and was very grave and serious-looking. “Who are you, little girl?” he asked, his voice being quite agreeable and his tone kindly. “I’m Car’lyn May, if you please,” she replied, looking up at him frankly. “Car’lyn May Stagg?” he asked. “You’re Mr. Stagg’s little girl? I’ve heard of you.” “Car’lyn May Cameron,” she corrected seriously. “I’m only staying with Uncle Joe. He is my guardian, and he had to take me, of course, when my papa and mamma were lost at sea.” “Indeed?” returned the gentleman. “Do you know who I am?” “I—I think,” said Carolyn May doubtfully, “that you must be the undertaker.” For a moment the gentleman looked startled. Then he flushed a little, but his eyes twinkled. “The undertaker?” he murmured. “Do I look like that?” “Excuse me, sir,” said Carolyn May. “I don’t really know you, you know. Maybe you’re _not_ the undertaker.” “No, I am not. Though our undertaker, Mr. Snivvins, is a very good man.” “Yes, sir,” said the little girl politely. “I am the pastor here—your pastor, I hope,” he said, putting a kind hand upon her head. “Oh, I know you now!” said Carolyn May brightly. “You’re the man Uncle Joe says is going to get a strangle hold on Satan, now that vacation is over.” The Reverend Afton Driggs looked rather odd again. The shocking frankness of the child came pretty near to flooring him. “I—ahem! Your uncle compliments me,” he said drily. “You don’t know that he is ready to do his share, do you?” “His share?” repeated the puzzled little girl. “Towards strangling the Evil One,” pursued the minister, a wry smile curling the corners of his lips. “Has he got a share in it, too?” asked Carolyn May. “I think we all should have,” said the minister, looking down at her with returning kindliness in his glance. “Even little girls like you.” Carolyn May looked at him quite seriously. “Do you s’pose,” she asked him confidentially, “that Satan is really wicked enough to trouble little girls?” It was a startling bit of new philosophy thus suggested, and Mr. Driggs shook his head in grave doubt. But it gave him something to think of all that day; and the first sermon preached in The Corners church that autumn seemed rather different from most of those solid, indigestible discourses that the good man was wont to drone out to his parishioners.