She spoke of her auntie’s belonging to a class different from herself as naturally as possible, and still with no shadow of contempt or disrespect in her voice. Mrs. Rogers had always taught her that though she must expect nothing from others on account of it, she was superior to people like herself and Norah, and Gertie accepted it as a fact, not knowing exactly whether it was the forty pounds a year or the big house where she used to live, or the dead mother, or the father who would not own her, or the grandmother she had never seen, which gave her the precedence. The next day, true to my promise, I took Gertie to the Schuyler Cemetery and showed her Abelard’s grave. “James A. Lyle, born in Alnwick, England, 18—. Died June —, 18—, aged 23 years. Honor to the dead who died to save another’s life,” she read aloud, kneeling on the grass before the monument which marked his resting-place. “Oh, how nice that is. ‘Honor to the dead who died to save another’s life,’ and that other was Mr. Godfrey,” she said. “And Colonel Schuyler put it here. I like him now better than I did. I thought he was proud and cold, but there must be good in him. Why, it’s a splendid stone, and must have cost as much as,—as much as forty pounds.” Her income was her maximum for an unheard-of sum, and she stood gazing admiringly at the stone, while her busy tongue went on. “And this is a pretty yard, with all those old Schuylers buried here. I mean, old really, you know. I don’t say it for bad nicknames. They were all old. ‘Emily, beloved wife of Colonel Howard Schuyler, aged 36,’ is the youngest of them all, and she was awful old. That must be Colonel Schuyler’s first wife, Mr. Godfrey’s mother. Was she as pretty, I wonder, as the new lady is? No, you have not kept the grave up nice; that girl would feel badly if she saw it. Let’s go straight to work and pull up the nasty weeds first; and look, here’s a clump of lovely forget-me-nots down in the grass, and sweet English violets.” She talked so fast and went so rapidly from one thing to another that I had no chance to say a word, but stood watching her silently as she worked with a will, pulling up the weeds and digging about the flowers which had been making a faint struggle for life in the grass which impeded their growth. Whether she was working for the sake of the young girl Heloise, or because it was Godfrey’s life which had been saved by the necessity for that grave, I could not tell. She talked of both, and when her task was done, and flushed and heated with exercise, she sat down to rest, she said: “There, Miss Heloise Fordham will feel better now, I hope, and I wouldn’t wonder if Mr. Godfrey liked me to be kind to the man who saved his life. Was she very pretty, Miss Armstrong?” I knew she meant Heloise, although her last remark had been of Godfrey, and I replied: