“‘Uncle Billy,’ says I, ‘what you wantin’ that plot for, anyhow? ’Tis so damp ’tis fair swampy.’ “‘Nothin’ much,’ says he. “‘But what _for?_’ says I. “‘Well,’ says he, ‘I wants it.’ “‘An’ ’tis on a side-hill,’ says I. ‘If the dunderheads doesn’t dig with care, you’ll find yourself with your feet higher’n your head.’ “‘Well,’ says he, ‘I wants it.’ “‘You isn’t got no friends in this neighborhood,’ says I; ‘they’re all put away on the north side. An’ the sun,’ says I, ‘doesn’t strike here last.’ “‘I wants it,’ says he. “‘What for?’ says I. “‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘but I wants it.’ “‘But what for?’ says I. “‘Well,’ says he, in a temper, ‘I got a _hankerin’_ for it!’ “‘Then, Uncle Bill,’ says I, for it made me sad,’ I wouldn’t mind them little graves. They’re poor wee things,’ says I, ‘an’ they wouldn’t disturb your rest.’ “‘Hush!’ says he. ‘Don’t—_don’t_ say that!’ “‘Graves o’ children,’ says I. “‘Don’t say no more, Tumm,’ says he. “‘Jus’ on’y poor little kids,’ says I. “‘Stop!’ says he. ‘Doesn’t you see I’m cryin’?’ “Then up come Tom Neverbudge. ‘Look you, Bill Hulk!’ says he, ‘you can take that plot or leave it. I’ll knock off seventy-five cents on account o’ the risk you take in them children. Come now!’ says he; ‘you take it or leave it.’ “‘Twenty-one fifty,’ says Bill. ‘That’s a raise o’ fifty, Tom.’ “‘Then,’ says Tom, ‘I’ll use that plot meself.’ “Bill Hulk jumped. ‘You!’ says he. ‘Nothin’ gone wrong along o’ you, is they, Tom?’ “‘Not yet,’ says Tom; ‘but they might.’ “‘No chill,’ says Bill, ‘an’ no fever? No ache in your back, is they, Tom?’ “‘Nar a ache.’ “‘An’ you isn’t give up the Labrador?’ “‘Not me!’ “‘Oh, well,’ says Bill, feelin’ easy again, ‘I ’low _you_ won’t never need no graveyard.’ “Tom Neverbudge up canvas an’ went off afore the wind in a wonderful temper; an’ then ol’ Bill Hulk an’ me took the homeward road. I remembers the day quite well—the low, warm sun, the long shadows, the fresh youth an’ green o’ leaves an’ grass, the tinkle o’ bells on the hills, the reaches o’ sea, the peace o’ weather an’ Sabbath day. I remembers it well: the wheeze an’ groan o’ ol’ Bill—crawlin’ home, sunk deep in the thought o’ graves—an’ the tender, bedtime twitter o’ the new-mated birds in the alders. When we rounded Fish Head Rock—’tis half-way from the graveyard—I seed a lad an’ a maid flit back from the path t’ hide whilst we crep’ by; an’ they was a laugh on the lad’s lips, an’ a smile an’ a sweet blush on the maid’s young face, as maids will blush an’ lads will laugh when love lifts un high. ’Twas at that spot I cotched ear of a sound I knowed quite well, havin’ made it meself, thank God! many a time an’ gladly. “Bill Hulk stopped dead in the path. ‘What’s that?’ says he. “‘Is you not knowin’?’ says I. “‘I’ve heared it afore,’ says he, ‘somewheres.’ “Twas a kiss,’ says I. “‘Tumm,’ says he, in a sort o’ scared whisper, ‘_is they at that yet in the world?_’