"Margery Lee," she read; "1844-1873. Wasn't she nice? She died when she was twenty-nine. Dear Margery Lee," she added softly. "Can't you see her, Harry?" "Yes, Sally Carrol." He felt a little hand insert itself into his. "She was dark, I think; and she always wore her hair with a ribbon in it, and gorgeous hoop-skirts of Alice blue and old rose." "Yes." "Oh, she was sweet, Harry! And she was the sort of girl born to stand on a wide, pillared porch and welcome folks in. I think perhaps a lot of men went away to war meanin' to come back to her; but maybe none of 'em ever did." He stooped down close to the stone, hunting for any record of marriage. "There's nothing here to show." "Of course not. How could there be anything there better than just 'Margery Lee,' and that eloquent date?" She drew close to him and an unexpected lump came into his throat as her yellow hair brushed his cheek. "You see how she was, don't you Harry?" "I see," he agreed gently. "I see through your precious eyes. You're beautiful now, so I know she must have been." Silent and close they stood, and he could feel her shoulders trembling a little. An ambling breeze swept up the hill and stirred the brim of her floppidy hat. "Let's go down there!" She was pointing to a flat stretch on the other side of the hill where along the green turf were a thousand grayish-white crosses stretching in endless, ordered rows like the stacked arms of a battalion. "Those are the Confederate dead," said Sally Carrol simply. They walked along and read the inscriptions, always only a name and a date, sometimes quite indecipherable. "The last row is the saddest--see, 'way over there. Every cross has just a date on it and the word 'Unknown.'" She looked at him and her eyes brimmed with tears. "I can't tell you how real it is to me, darling--if you don't know." "How you feel about it is beautiful to me." "No, no, it's not me, it's them--that old time that I've tried to have live in me. These were just men, unimportant evidently or they wouldn't have been 'unknown'; but they died for the most beautiful thing in the world--the dead South. You see," she continued, her voice still husky, her eyes glistening with tears, "people have these dreams they fasten onto things, and I've always grown up with that dream. It was so easy because it was all dead and there weren't any disillusions comin' to me. I've tried in a way to live up to those past standards of noblesse oblige--there's just the last remnants of it, you know, like the roses of an old garden dying all round us--streaks of strange courtliness and chivalry in some of these boys an' stories I used to hear from a Confederate soldier who lived next door, and a few old darkies. Oh, Harry, there was something, there was something! I couldn't ever make you understand but it was there." "I understand," he assured her again quietly.