“Oh, I’d like to do that,” Gertie said; and in a moment her nimble fingers had gathered the few flowers still in blossom, and which were destined for that home beyond the sea where Abelard once lived. “I pity that old lady so much, and like her too; she seems so much like my grandma, though I don’t know where she is. Auntie never told me.” “You have one, then?” Edith asked, and Gertie told her all she knew of herself, not forgetting the forty pounds a year which was to pay for her education, for she meant to be a teacher like Miss Armstrong, and play the organ, maybe, when Miss Armstrong was too old. How interested Edith was in this little girl who puzzled, and confused, and bewildered her so; they were getting acquainted with each other rapidly, when a man’s step sounded in the distance, and turning quickly, while a look of eager joy lighted up her face, Gertie cried: “It is Mr. Godfrey, I guess.” But Mr. Godfrey was still doing duty at Alice’s side, and the newcomer was Robert Macpherson, who was coming directly toward the cemetery, which he reached before he discovered its occupants. Then, with a start and a blush, as if detected in something he would hide, he lifted his hat to Mrs. Schuyler and went forward to greet her. “And here is Gertie too,” he said, as he offered her his hand; then turning again to Edith he explained that he had just come from New York in the train which passed a few moments ago. “Came from New York to-day! Why, Mr. Macpherson, it’s Sunday!” Gertie exclaimed, while Edith smiled, and Mr. Macpherson looked amused as he replied to the child, who believed in the fourth commandment. “Yes, Gertie, I know it is Sunday, and that I should have waited until to-morrow, inasmuch as there was nothing more pressing than homesickness, for to tell the truth I was homesick in the city, and after church this morning,—there came over me such a longing for the country and a familiar face that I resolved to take the first train to Hampstead. That is why I am here on Sunday, little Puritan,” and he smiled good-humoredly at Gertie, thinking what a wonderful face she had, and how like she was to the sister sleeping under the English skies, and then he glanced at the well-kept grave and at the monument and the name upon it, “James A. Lyle,” and said aloud, in an absent kind of way: “Born in Alnwick.” “He saved Godfrey’s life, you know, and lost his own,” Gertie said, while Mr. Macpherson bowed and answered: “Yes, I know,” but gave no sign that when on reaching the brow of the hill on his way from the station he saw the white headstone gleaming in the distance, he came that way to see for himself this very grave of Abelard Lyle, who was born in Alnwick. “Shall we go to the house? Godfrey will be glad to know you are here,” Edith said, and as she spoke something in the expression of her face made Robert glance quickly from her to Gertie, who was tying on her bonnet.