At last she roused herself, and, looking up at the stone above her, traced the name with startled senses: MARY MONTGOMERY, Born 1798, Died 1825. _Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God._ Now, indeed, Dawn was wide awake! This, then, was her mother’s grave. She verified the dates with her own memory. She traced the letters tenderly with her fingers, she took in the significance of the quotation, and read her mother’s story as she had never been told it by any one. Her mind, made keen by suffering, could understand and sympathize. Her young heart ached with longing for the mother who was gone from her. How might they have comforted each other if they could only have been permitted to stay together! A little later she moved her position and saw that there was a smaller mound beyond her mother’s grave, and that the white stone read: CARROLL MONTGOMERY VAN RENSSELAER, Aged 2 years and 9 months. _He shall gather the lambs in His arms._ Before this stone Dawn knelt in wonder. Had she, then, had a brother? And how much more of the story was there? Oh, if she had only asked her father more questions! Perhaps some day she would dare to go to him and find out many things. Not now—not till she was older and had forgotten some of the troubles she had borne. Poor child! She knew not that his body had been resting beneath a stately monument these ten days past! Beyond her was her grandfather’s stone, and beside it her grandmother’s, much older and moss-covered. In the same enclosure were many other Montgomerys who had lived and died. Some of their names she thought she remembered. She sighed wearily, and, going back to her mother’s grave, touched the letters of her name gently, as if she would bid them farewell, picked a spray of the blossoming myrtle, and went sadly out into a lonely world again. She could not stay here; it was too sorrowful. She walked to the next village that afternoon, and took another coach, the first that came along, going she knew not where. When she reached the end of the route the next morning, she took up her walk again, resolving to spend no more money for riding. She did not realize how long she had walked, but some time in the afternoon she came into a familiar region. She could not tell where she was at first, but as she drew near to the village she recognized it as her native town. At first she was frightened, and stopped by the roadside to think what to do. Then a great longing to see the garden once more, and creep into the old summer-house, came over her. Skirting the woods on the outside of the village, and going around by the saw-mill, she at last came to the hedge at the lower end of her father’s garden, and slipped through to the summer-house, as she had wished.