Knowing that I was in their way, and feeling rather out of spirits, I went my old accustomed round of places, sacred in my memory to a certain father and mother of my own. How long I wept at their simple graves, how I knelt to their God and mine, thanking Him from my desolate heart for the light now shed upon me, and how I prayed that they might both be looking down on me now and craving heavenly guidance for me through the peril yet to come--these, and the rest of my doings there, cannot well be told except to the ears of orphans. The clouds of an overcast existence seemed to be opening rapidly, and though they could never disclose my sun and moon again, some happiness it was to know even how those had set. And more than all, the foul aspersion upon my father’s memory, which all the while I scorned it so, had lain heavily on my thoughts, this was now proved liar’s spittle, and my sweet darling father had offended not even a villain. A thousand times I implored his pardon for the splash having ever descended upon the hem of my garment, though shaken off straight-way with loathing. In the midst of my dreamy thoughts, and while I sat between the two low headstones, upon the very spot where I hope my own head may lie, the tremulous beauty of the Golden Thuja, which I had planted there, was pushed aside too carelessly, and something far more beautiful planted itself in front. It was my cousin Lily. I have been strictly forbidden ever to call her "Isola," or even "Idols," again, as savouring of the evil one. Lily Vaughan was beaming with young delight and happiness: the fresh west country air, sweet from the tropic gulf-stream, had crowned the April of her cheeks with a June of roses. "Oh, Donna, I am so glad I have found you at last. What makes you run away from me and my Papa? I have lost my way all over the world. What a lovely world it is, Donna!" "Don’t call me that name here. Do you not see where you stand?" She glanced at the headstones engraved with initials and dates, and at once understood it all. For a long time she was silent, a long time I mean for her; and her soft eyes glistened at once with awe and pity. At last, she crept close to me, looked at the ground, and whispered with a deep sigh: "How you must hate me, Clara." "Hate you, my darling! What for?" "Oh, because I have got such a dear Papa, and you have none at all. And much worse than that, because--because--oh, I don’t know how to tell you." "Tell me all you mean. Let there be no misunderstanding between us." "Because my mother and my father seem somehow to have killed--though I am sure they would rather have killed themselves--your poor papa and mamma." And she leaned on my mother’s headstone, and sobbed till I feared for her heart. I put my arm around her waist, drew her towards me, and sat on my father’s grave, with his niece upon my lap.