"Will the gravestone be placed in that churchyard?" They were now in another lane; and, as he spoke, the stranger checked her, and bending down to look into her face, he murmured to himself, "Is it possible?--it must be--it must!" "Yes! I love that churchyard--my brother told me to put flowers there; and grandfather and I sit there in the summer, without speaking. But I don't talk much, I like singing better:-- "'All things that good and harmless are Are taught, they say, to sing The maiden resting at her work, The bird upon the wing; The little ones at church, in prayer; The angels in the sky The angels less when babes are born Than when the aged die.'" And unconscious of the latent moral, dark or cheering, according as we estimate the value of this life, couched in the concluding rhyme, Fanny turned round to the stranger, and said, "Why should the angels be glad when the aged die?" "That they are released from a false, unjust, and miserable world, in which the first man was a rebel, and the second a murderer!" muttered the stranger between his teeth, which he gnashed as he spoke. The girl did not understand him: she shook her head gently, and made no reply. A few moments, and she paused before a small house. "This is my home." "It is so," said her companion, examining the exterior of the house with an earnest gaze; "and your name is Fanny." "Yes--every one knows Fanny. Come in;" and the girl opened the door with a latch-key. The stranger bowed his stately height as he crossed the low threshold and followed his guide into a little parlour. Before a table on which burned dimly, and with unheeded wick, a single candle, sat a man of advanced age; and as he turned his face to the door, the stranger saw that he was blind. The girl bounded to his chair, passed her arms round the old man's neck, and kissed his forehead; then nestling herself at his feet, and leaning her clasped hands caressingly on his knee, she said,-- "Grandpapa, I have brought you somebody you must love. He has been so kind to Fanny." "And neither of you can remember me!" said the guest. The old man, whose dull face seemed to indicate dotage, half raised himself at the sound of the stranger's voice. "Who is that?" said he, with a feeble and querulous voice. "Who wants me?" "I am the friend of your lost son. I am he who, ten years go, brought Fanny to your roof, and gave her to your care--your son's last charge. And you blessed your son, and forgave him, and vowed to be a father to his Fanny." The old man, who had now slowly risen to his feet, trembled violently, and stretched out his hands. "Come near--near--let me put my hands on your head. I cannot see you; but Fanny talks of you, and prays for you; and Fanny--she has been an angel to me!"