I do not advocate Rooseveltian families—the age for large families has passed away—but I do believe every sane man should have a life behind in place of the one he takes away when he steps out. These forgotten and neglected graves in the Stech burial ground show that the Stechs neglected their duty during life. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” is true in all phases of earthly existence. In less than a century ninety-nine per cent of the world’s dead are forgotten on earth. We, too, will be forgotten. Is there a record kept elsewhere? Are there more durable tablets than these rough mountain stones and granite? IN THE OPEN DOOR While out driving during the summer days of last season, I passed a little whitewashed cottage many times while returning in the evening, and noticed that on clear sunset days, an old woman stood in the open door and looked out toward the sunset, where the light lay like golden sheets upon the distant hilltops. When I spoke to her and bade her “good evening,” she lowered her eyes for a moment and returned my salute, and then raised them to study the sun set beauties. At last I stopped one September evening and remarked: “You seem to take great pleasure in the glories of a Pennsylvania sunset, grandmother. Were you ever an artist or painter?” “Bless your heart, no. I’ve always been a plain housekeeper. My husband used to make and repair shoes in that little shop across the road, and I married him to keep house and cook his meals. I love the sunset for the sake of old memories. It was a bright sunset evening when Albert and I drove up the road to the gate yonder, and the farmer’s son came and took the horse and buggy home. We walked down this gravel path hand in hand and passed in through this door. We had been married only two hours, and we came here to begin our married life. “The cottage was new then, for Albert built it for our home when we first became engaged. Previous to that he had lived in the shop. He came here a journeyman shoemaker, but the journeyman business had changed to the village shoe shop. He bought the little shop from the shoemaker who was removing to Ohio. And there he worked for two years and prospered. He was an orphan boy and had no relatives he knew of. Had been brought up in a foundling, which they called a “poor house,” in those days. Albert and I met at the country dances, for he could play the fiddle lovely. Nowadays they call it a violin, but Albert was only a fiddler on a fiddle. “Sixty-two years ago and better, we walked down this gravel path hand in hand, and we were chums for over forty years. The old shop is falling into decay and the door does not close tight any more, but the cottage has been repaired since Albert died. But I don’t think of his death on these bright sunset evenings. I only remember and think of our wedding day, and of the other bright, sunny evenings when he and the children sat on this bench after working hours, and I sat in the door with my knitting.