“I see; ‘Fiddle;’ yes, quite expressive. And the others?” “‘Shucks’ is one of them.” “Used, I fancy, in much the same sense as ‘Fiddle’?” Holly nodded. “Only――only not so much so,” she added. “Certainly not,” replied Winthrop. “I understand. For instance, if you fell down stairs you’d say ‘Fiddle!’ but if you merely bumped your head you’d say ‘Shucks!’” “Yes,” laughed Holly. “And the third prohibited word?” asked Winthrop. “That’s――that’s――――” Holly bent her head very meekly over her plate――“that’s ‘Darnation!’” “Expressive, at least,” laughed Winthrop. “That is reserved, I suppose, for such extraordinary occasions as when you fall from a sixth-story window?” “No; I say that when I stick a needle into my finger,” answered Holly. “It seems to suit better than ‘Fiddle’ or ‘Shucks;’ don’t you think so, Mr. Winthrop?” “Well, I don’t remember ever having stuck a needle into my finger, but I’ll try it some time and give you my candid opinion on the question.” After breakfast Winthrop wandered out into the garden and from thence into the grove beyond. There were pines and cedars here, and oaks, and other trees which he didn’t know the names of. The gray-green Spanish moss draped an occasional limb, and at times there was some underbrush. Finding the drive, he followed it toward the gate, but before reaching the latter he struck off again through a clearing and climbed a little knoll on the summit of which a small brick-walled enclosure guarded by three huge oaks attracted his attention and aroused his curiosity. But he didn’t open the little iron gate when he reached it. Within the square enclosure were three graves, two close together near at hand, one somewhat removed. From where he leaned across the crumbling wall Winthrop could read the inscriptions on the three simple headstones. The farther grave was that of “John Wayne, born Fairfield, Kentucky, Feb. 1, 1835; fell at Malvern Hill, July 1, 1862; interred in this spot July 28, 1862.” The nearer of the two graves which lay together was that, as Winthrop surmised, of Holly’s mother. Behind the headstone a rose-bush had been planted, and this morning one tiny bloom gleamed wanly in the shadow of the wall. “To the Beloved Memory of Margaret Britton, Wife of Lamar Wayne; Sept. 3, 1853–Jan. 1, 1881. Aged 27 years. ‘The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death, Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath.’” Winthrop’s gaze turned to the stone beside it. “Here lies,”――he read――“the Body of Captain Lamar Wayne, C. S. A., who was born in Fairfield, Kentucky, Aug, 4, 1842, and died at Waynewood, Sept. 21, 1892, aged 50 years. ‘Happier for me that all our hours assign’d, Together we had lived; ev’n not in death disjoined.’”