made her very handsome in spite of the outlandish dress in which Hester always arrayed her, and the rather awkward manner in which she carried her hands and elbows. Hester ignored fashions. If Magdalen was only clean and neat, that was all she thought necessary, and she put the child in clothes old enough for herself, and Frank often ridiculed the queer-looking dresses buttoned up before, and far too long for a girl of Magdalen’s age. Except for Frank’s teasing remarks, Magdalen would have cared very little for her personal appearance, and as he was in New Haven now she was having a nice time alone in the cemetery, with her shoes and stockings off to cool her feet, and her bonnet off to cool her head, round which her short, damp hair was curling more than usual. She was thinking of Jessie, and wondering how she happened to be on the ocean, and where she was going, and she did not at first see the stranger coming down the walk in the direction of the yard where she was sitting. He was apparently between fifty and sixty, for his hair was very gray, and there were deep-cut lines about his eyes and mouth; but he was very fine-looking still, and a man to be noticed and commented upon among a thousand. He was coming directly to Squire Irving’s lot, where he stood a moment with his hand upon the iron fence before Magdalen saw him. With a blush and a start she sprang up, and tried, by bending her knees, to make her dress cover her bare feet, which, nevertheless, were plainly visible, as she modestly answered the stranger’s questions. “Good afternoon, Miss,” he said, touching his hat to her as politely as if she had been a princess, instead of a barefoot girl. “You have chosen a novel, but very pleasant place for an afternoon reverie. Whose yard is this, and whose little girl are you?” “I am Mr. Roger’s little girl, and this is Squire Irving’s lot. That’s his monument,” Magdalen replied; and at the sound of her voice and the lifting up of her eyes the stranger looked curiously at her. “What is your name, and what are you doing here?” he asked her next; and she replied, “I came with flowers for the grave. I bring them every Saturday, and my name is Magdalen.” This time the stranger started, and without waiting to go round to the gate, sprang over the iron fence and came to Magdalen’s side. “Magdalen whom?” he asked. “Magdalen Rogers?” “No, sir. Magdalen Lennox. I haven’t any father nor mother, and I live up at Millbank. You can just see it through the trees. Squire Irving used to live there, but since he died it belongs to Mr. Roger, and he has gone to Europe, and told me to bring flowers every Saturday to the graves. That’s his father,” she continued, pointing to the squire’s name, “and that,” pointing to Jessie’s name, “is his mother; only she is not here, you know. She died on the sea.”