“This one,” and Gertie pointed to the flower-bed where the vase was standing. “You see,” she continued, “this is Mr. Lyle’s grave,—Mr. James A. Lyle, who died in saving Mr. Godfrey’s life. He was working on the tower of the house at Schuyler Hill, and Mr. Godfrey was a little boy, and climbed up and slipped, and Mr. Lyle caught him, and threw him where he was safe, but fell himself down—down—down—to the very earth, where he was smashed all to bits, and they took him up as dead as dead could be!” Gertie was very eloquent and earnest, and emphasized her “down—down—down” with a wave of her hand in the air and a stamp of her foot upon the ground, while Edith, who could not speak for the fingers at her throat, sat gazing at her, motionless and completely fascinated by her face, and manner, and voice, which last had in it the ring of something familiar,—something heard years ago, when she was young and listened to the bell in the old church-tower ringing on a Sunday morning. When she could speak, she asked: “How did you learn all this, and who keeps the grave so nicely?” “I do; for you see Miss Armstrong,—that’s my teacher, she was at church to-day, and plays the organ,—she came here with me one time, and, when I asked about the graves, she told me whose they were,—that is, the newest ones. That great, tall stone is the first Mrs. Schuyler; but you don’t care for that. She was not half as pretty as you, they say, and so he had to get her this grand stone, which cost two or three thousand dollars. I dote on graves, and like to hear about them, and Miss Armstrong told me about this poor boy, or man he must have been, for he was a young girl’s beau, I guess.” “A what?” Edith gasped. And Gertie went on: