“Yes,” said the boy, in a low tone. “Now, ain’t grown people queer, David Lindsay?” “How?” “The way they talk. They will say one minute a man has died and gone to heaven, and the next minute they will say he is buried in such a church-yard. Now, how can he be in heaven and in the ground at the same time?” “I don’t know. It is a great mystery,” said the boy, gravely. “I don’t like mysteries. I don’t. They always make me feel as if I was in a cellar, or some dark place and in danger. And what is more, I don’t believe in them. I don’t believe my father and mother are buried in the ground. I believe they both went out to heaven before that which they used to live in was put in the ground. And, somehow, inside of myself I know it is so. Do you like to read, David Lindsay?” she asked, abruptly. “Yes; I learned to read and write at St. Inigoes parish school; but I have no books except Webster’s Spelling Book, and I know every word of that by heart, even the fables.” “Oh, then I can bring you ever so many books. I have a bookcase full, all of my own, in my room, and uncle has a great room full, from the floor up to the ceiling, all around the walls, you know.” “That is very good of you. I do thank you. You are the little girl that lives up in the house, then—Colonel de Crespigney’s niece?” “Yes—no. I mean I am Madame de Crespigney’s niece; though, do you know, it seems so strange, I always feel as if he was more kin to me than she is!” “I suppose you love him best; that must be the reason. Well, everybody loves Colonel de Crespigney. I know I do. He took me on to work here out of kindness, I am sure, for he couldn’t really want me, you see, so many colored people as he has!” “He is very, very good, and very unhappy. Where do you live, David Lindsay?” she inquired, with the sudden transition of a child’s thoughts. “Do you see that little, tiny bit of an island out there by itself?” he said, rising and pointing eastward. “What!—that little sandbank?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Yes, there is a house on it.” “A mere shed.” “We live in it, grandmother and I. And we have chickens and ducks, and a little bit of a garden, with a made soil, where we raise radishes and lettuce and cabbage and potatoes.” “No flowers?” “Oh, yes; a red rose-bush, and a white rose-bush, and pinks, and pansies and larkspurs.” “Oh, that is pretty! Is your grandmother nice?” “Oh! I tell you!” heartily answered the boy. “Would she let me come to see her?” “Why, of course she would, and glad!” “Well, then, will you take me over there to see your grandmother, David Lindsay?” “Yes, indeed, that I will, if your uncle will let you go.” “Oh, he’ll let me. But how do you get over there, David Lindsay?” inquired the child, gazing over the expanse of water to the little dot that seemed to be about half-way between the promontory and the eastern horizon.