“There was a beautiful young girl here then, from England,—Heloise Fordham,—and she liked Mr. Lyle, and he liked her, and she cried so when he was killed, and had a dreadful headache; and when she went away, she made Miss Armstrong promise to keep up the grave till she came back to see it, and to water the rosebush which she set out, and keep the vase full of flowers in the summer time. And Miss Armstrong did water the rose,—and for a while she tended the grave, hoping to hear from the girl, or that she would come; but she never did, and so at last she grew tired like and careless, and, when she told me about it that day, it was a sight to see for weeds. I like to dig and work in the dirt, and so I made it nice, thinking Godfrey would be pleased; and then, too, do you know, I do it part for the girl, Heloise, who lived in the very house where I live now, and slept in my room. And the poor man was carried there, and his coffin and funeral were in the great room; but I never told auntie, because she is afraid of ghosts. I am not, though, and I like to think about him and her, and to make believe she is there with me, crying by the window for the lover dead down stairs; and once,—it’s funny, but it was the night you came,—I lay awake ever so long, and fancied she was there, and, before I knew it, said right out aloud, ‘Poor Heloise, Gertie is sorry for you.’” “Oh, child, child, hush, hush!” Edith cried, as she drew Gertie to her and pressed her close to her side. “Why, is it wicked? Was it naughty to make believe she was there and talk to her?” Gertie asked, wonderingly; and Edith replied: “No, no, not that; talk to her, pity her, pray for her all you please; and tell me, has nothing been heard of her since she went away?” “Nothing, I guess; and Miss Armstrong said maybe she’s dead or married. I do not like to think her dead. I’d rather believe her married and alive. Don’t you suppose she is?” “Yes, I believe she is married; and I know she would be so grateful to you and love you so much if she knew what care you take of the grave.” And obeying an impulse she could not resist, Edith smoothed the bright hair back from the fair white forehead, and looking straight into the clear, blue eyes, kissed the child, whose lips kissed back again and sent a strange tremor through every nerve of Edith’s body. “Had you heard of this grave before?” Gertie asked, puzzled a little at the lady’s manner; and Edith replied: “Yes; Godfrey told me of it in England, and Colonel Schuyler too, and on our bridal tour we went to see Mr. Lyle’s mother;” and in a low voice Edith told the listening child of the white-haired old woman knitting in the sunshine by the door of that thatched cottage among the heather hills. “I promised to write to her,” she added, “and tell her about the grave, and perhaps you will press me some flowers which grew here and I’ll send them in the letter?”