In the back part of the book was the music of several tunes such as were used at that time in the churches; and amongst them was one known as "Marblehead." [Illustration: music score] * Copied literally from publication "printed by J. Draper for T. Leverett in Cornhill 1752." Good Parson Barnard had years since been laid away in his grave on the old Burial Hill, which rose higher than all the land about, as though Nature were seeking to lift as near as might be to the skies the dead committed to her care. The quaint child seemed to delight in pondering over these hymns, many of which were past her comprehending; and the long s, so like an f, led her to make many curious blunders when trying to repeat the words,--a thing she was always proud to be asked to do. Once she had insisted upon being told why it was that saints must have "fits;" and it appeared that she had misread the long s in the sentence, "The Saints that fit above." Her greatest favorite, and the one she often read, was:-- "My Heart, like Grafs that's fmit with heat Withers, that I forget to eat; By reafon of my conftant Groans I am reduced to fkin and Bones. I'm like the Pelican, and Owl, That lonely in the Deferts ftroll; As mournful fparrows percht alone On the Houfe Top, I walk and moan." "Tell me, cousin,--what sort o' bottles does God have?" she now asked, as Dorothy glanced at the book held against her knee. "'Bitha!" Mary exclaimed reprovingly, while Dorothy stared at the child, and began to laugh. 'Bitha could never endure to be laughed at; and being very fond of Mary Broughton, she did not relish her disapproval. And so at this double attack upon her sensibilities, she looked hurt and a bit angry. "If," she demanded, "'t is wicked to say that God has bottles, what does the Church Book say so for?" And she pointed to the open page. "Whatever does the child mean?" asked Dorothy of Mary, as she took the book into her own hands. "There,--right there!" was 'Bitha's triumphant retort. "Read for yourself!" And she trailed a small finger along the lines,-- "Thou hast a book for my complaints, A bottle for my Tears." "There!" the child repeated. "You see 't is so. Why should God keep bottles in Heaven,--and what sort would He keep?" "I think you will know more about such things when you grow older," was Dorothy's irresponsive answer; and she handed the book to Mary, while her dancing eyes glinted with topaz hues caught from the sunshine without. "You are an odd child, 'Bitha," Mary said, smiling in spite of herself as she read the lines. "That is what I am always told when I ask about anything," the little girl pouted. Before any reply could be made to this general accusation a shadow darkened the opening of the cave, and looking up, all three sprang to their feet with exclamations of dismay.