"And you dignify that stream with the title of river?" "Don't be so scornful," he protested. "To-day it is a stream, but in the War of 1812 the British men-o'-war sailed up it to this point, burned down the original colonial homestead yonder," indicating the mansion Miriam had been admiring, "and sailed away again." Miriam was paying scant attention to his historical facts, instead she was considering his previous statement. "So your jurisdiction ends at the river," she repeated. "And a criminal has simply to run across the bridge to elude you." "If he is a fast runner," dryly. Trenholm stroked his horse's soft nostril, as the chestnut mare rubbed her head against his arm and nosed in his pocket for the apple and sugar she so dearly loved and always found. "Also, there's a sheriff in Anne Arundel County. Are you returning to Abbott's Lodge, or," his eyes twinkled, "thinking of a sprint across Hills Bridge?" "My conscience is clear," she replied, "and I am on my way to the Lodge." "Then let me show you a short cut," and, taking her consent for granted, Trenholm led the way off the high road and along a footpath, his mare walking contentedly along behind them. Miriam, a lover of horses, stopped every now and then to caress her, unconscious of the charming picture she made, her mind carefree for the moment, and her cheeks glowing from her long walk in the wind. They had gone fully three quarters of the distance to the Lodge when the footpath took a sudden turn to the right and, crossing a wood, skirted a small graveyard. The unexpected sight caused Miriam to start slightly and she took in the air of desolation and the unkept appearance of the graves with a sense of depression which she strove to shake off. "The Masons' family burying ground," explained Trenholm, observing her change of expression. "It is now part of Abbott's estate. Not a very cheerful sight, is it?" Miriam shook her head. "Not very," she echoed, and paused idly to count the headstones, some still standing upright, while others, badly chipped and lichen-covered, reclined on the ground. "Twelve," she announced. "No, thirteen," added Trenholm, pointing to a grave a little distance from the others and running obliquely to them. "Surely, I didn't see that one," she exclaimed. "Why is it placed in that manner--outside the pale, so to speak?" and she touched a piece of rusty iron which had once formed the fence around the family plot. A number of other upright pieces of iron indicated the line it had once taken. "It's a suicide's grave," explained Trenholm. "There is an old superstition among the negroes that such a grave cannot be dug straight or on line with the others. Shall we walk on, Miss Ward?" and turning, he whistled to his mare, standing some distance down the path.