Mrs. Barkley felt the color come up into her face at that small, cold sound. "Lydia is very poor," she blurted out. "Really?" murmured Mr. Rives, with embarrassment; and fell to stroking his beaver hat carefully. Then he added that he deeply regretted Mrs. Barkley's information. "I knew you would," she said, in a relieved voice. "Lydia is a dear girl. So kind and so uncomplaining! And--and faithful in her affections, William." "Ah!" said Mr. Rives again; his smile never changed, but his eyes were keen. "Yes," Mrs. Barkley said, boldly. "Why, William--I don't know that I ought to tell you, but do you remember a sketch of yourself that you gave her in--in other days? William, she has kept it ever since. It hangs in her parlor, (horrid, smoky room!) And she keeps a sprig of fresh box stuck in the frame." "Really?" said Mr. Rives; and his face grew a little redder. "That's all," Mrs. Barkley said, abruptly. "Now go. I just thought I'd mention it." "Yes," said Mr. Rives; then added that it was a beautiful night, and politely bowed himself out. "But he didn't say anything about giving anything," Mrs. Barkley told Dr. Lavendar the next day. And whatever romantic hopes she may have had withered under the blighting touch of such indifference. III Mrs. Barkley's hopes withered and then revived; for as she climbed the hill to the Stuffed-Animal House a day or two later whom should she see wandering through the graveyard (of all places!) but Lydia and William. "Of course, I pretended not to see them," she told Harriet Hutchinson, "but I believe they've begun to take notice." They had not seen her; the graveyard was on the crest of the hill, and the road lay below the bank and the stone wall, wherein were set two or three iron doors streaked and eaten with rust, each with its name and its big ring-bolt. There was a bleached fringe of dead grass along the top of the wall, but the bank above was growing green in the April sunshine. There were many trees in this older part of the cemetery, and even now, when the foliage was hardly more than a mist, the tombs and low mounds and old headstones were dappled with light shadows. Miss Lydia and William had met here, by some chance; and Mrs. Barkley, climbing the road before it dipped below the bank, had caught sight of them just where the slope broke into sunshine beyond the trees. Behind them, leaning sidewise over a sunken grave, was a slate headstone, its base deep in a thatch of last year's grass; there were carved cherubs on the corners, and the inscription was blurred with lichen. A still older tomb, a slab of granite on four pedestals, made a seat for Miss Lydia. She had been deciphering its crumbling inscription: "Mr. Amos Sm ... Sr. Born ...... 1734 Die ... May 7th, 1802 Aged 68 "Base body, thou art faint and weak-- (How the sweet moments roll!) A mortal paleness on thy cheek, But glory in thy soul!"