She might have done what so many do—and they have a right to do it, there hain’t a mite of harm in it, and the law bears ’em out— She might have had lofty memorial winders wrought out of stained glass, with gorgeous designs representin’ Moses leadin’ his brethren through the Red Sea, or our Saviour helpin’ sinners to better lives— And white glass angels a bendin’ down over red glass mourners, and rays of glass light a brightenin’ and warmin’ glass children below ’em. There hain’t a mite of harm in this; and if it is a comfort to mourners, Genieve hadn’t no objection, and I hain’t. And the more beauty there is, natural or boughten, the better it is for this sad old world anyway. But for her part, Genieve felt that she had ruther spend the wealth of her love and her help upon them that suffered for it. [Illustration: FATHER GASPERIN.] Upon little children, who, though mebby they didn’t shine so much as the glass ones did, but who wuz human, and sorrowful, and needy. Little hearts that knew how to ache, and to aspire; innocent, ignorant souls whose destiny lay to a great extent in the ones about ’em; little blunderin’ footsteps that she could help step heavenward. By the side of the plain but large and comfortable church in the colony there wuz a low white cross bearin’ Victor’s name. But within the church, in the hundreds of souls who met there to worship God, his name and influence wuz carved in deeper lines than any that wuz ever carved in stun. It wuz engraved deep in the aspirin’ lives of them who come here to be taught, and then went out to teach the savage tribes about them. Many, many learned to live, helped by his memory and his influence; many learned how to die, helped by his memory and his example. Good Father Gasperin, who went with the colony, has passed away. He preached the word in season and out of season. And his death wuz only like the steppin’ out of the vestibule of a church into the warm and lighted radiance of the interior. He knew whom he had believed. He had seen the good seed he had sown spring up an hundred fold, and ripenin’ to the harvest, that sown agin and agin might yield blessed sheaves to the Lord of the harvest. And when the summons come he wuz glad to lay down his prunin’ knife and his sickle and rest. The same sunset that gilds the mound under which he sleeps looks down upon a low cottage not very fur away. It stands under the droopin’, graceful boughs of a group of palm-trees that rise about it, its low bamboo walls shinin’ out from the dark green screen of leaves. An open veranda runs round it half shaded with gorgeous creepin’ vines glowin’ and odorous, more beautiful than our colder climate ever saw. [Illustration: “FELIX, HIS WIFE AND LITTLE NED.”] Inside it is simple but neat. The bare floors have a few rugs spread upon them, a few pictures are on the walls. A round table stands spread in a small dinin’ room, with a snowy cloth woven of the flax of old Georgia upon it.