As Emily passed through the familiar walks, she came suddenly upon a grave in a remote corner of the cemetery, beside which sat a solitary mourner. The spot was unenclosed, save by a few dark pines, and the outline of the grave upon the grassy turf distinctly visible. A small while slab lay upon the centre of the green mound, and at its head grew a rose-tree of wonderful beauty, bending till its weight of pure, white buds and blossoms, touched the long bright grass upon the grave. Its simple loveliness touched the heart of Emily, and drawing near, she stooped down and read upon the pure marble—“_Dear Elise_.” Her young eyes filled with tears, and with an irresistible impulse she turned her face, full of tenderest sympathy toward her who sat beside the grave, and murmured, “Was it your Elise?” The woman, who had been unheeding until now, looked up at the sound of that earnest voice, and meeting a glance of such sorrowing gentleness, answered softly— “Yes, my only, only child!” There was something in the eye now first raised to hers, that eye sunken but still wonderfully beautiful—a half-remembered expression, that riveted Emily’s gaze, and invested with a deep interest the stranger before her. Laying her hand gently upon that of the woman, she said softly— “Is it long since you laid her here?” “Only a few weeks,” was the reply; “there were buds on the rose-tree when I brought it here.” “And was it hers?” asked Emily, stooping down to inhale the rich fragrance of the beautiful flower. “Yes, and it was the dearest treasure she possessed. Oh! how often have I watched her as she sat beside it at the window, with her proud head bending over her work, its blossoms not more delicate and pure than the brow against which they bloomed. Oh, my Elise, how beautiful she was! I used to think that in all the wide world, there was not, there could never be a face so surpassingly lovely. I only cared to live that I might look upon her beauty: I worshiped, I adored my child, and God has taken her from me!” She paused, but encouraged by the earnest, attentive face of Emily, continued: “I am of Italy, and my Elise inherited the dark eyes and impassioned nature of the land of her birth. When my child was but two years old, I left my native shores, and with my only relative, my father, followed my young American husband to his own land. And here, before many years, he died and left me, with a charge to watch over unceasingly, our marvelously beautiful child, who, with her father’s fair, transparent complexion and regular features, had also inherited his delicate constitution.