They found the graves without any difficulty, but, as Mr. Taylor had said, they were sunken and neglected. No one had cared for them since Mark went away. The grass around them was never cut and now lay in dry clumps upon them. The rose bush Mark had planted was dead and a huge burdock stood in its place. The headstones were weather-beaten and discolored, and that of ’Tina had partially fallen over. Fanny went down upon the ground and read the name “Christine Dalton.” There was nothing to tell where she was born or where she died, and in her nervous, morbid state Fanny found herself pitying the woman who had gone to her grave dishonored and despised. “Nobody ever shed a tear for you, I dare say, but I will,” she said, and sitting upon the stone where her mother had sat with Mark Hilton when he told her the story of ’Tina, she began to cry very low to herself, so that Roy might not hear and laugh at her. “Where is he?” she said, when she had paid sufficient respect to ’Tina, and looking up, missed him from her side. She saw him at last in the distance standing near the monument of Gen. Allen, and his loud call came to her across the rows of graves which intervened. “I say, Fan, ar’n’t you some connection to Gen. George Allen, who served in the Revolutionary War, was wounded at Bunker Hill and Saratoga, and did a lot more things, and died regretted by friend and foe?” She did not answer, and he continued, “Come away from that damp, lonesome place. I got chilly there myself. Come up here and visit another ancestor, who, perhaps, wasn’t any more respectable than those you are mooning over, but he has a stunner for a monument and an obituary as long as my arm.” Fanny was getting tired and cold, and went up the slope to where Roy was waiting for her. “Yes, that is mother’s grandfather,” she said, rather cheerfully, as she looked at the monument and read the inscription upon it. There was some difference between this costly stone and well-kept enclosure where a number of Allens were lying and the sunken, neglected graves under the shadow of the wall, and Fanny felt the difference, and her spirits began to rise in the vicinity of the Allens, who represented the aristocracy of the cemetery. Both belonged to her, the grand monument and the sunken graves, the Allens and the Daltons,—but the Allens were the nearest of kin,—they were like what she was born to and had been accustomed to all her life and she felt a thrill of pride on reading the eulogy on her great-grandfather, who had rendered such service to his country and been so highly esteemed by his fellow-citizens. “Good blood there, of the bluest kind,” Roy said, teasingly. “It ought to make amends for forty ’Tinas.” Then, as the shrill whistle from the shoe shop came echoing across the fields, he continued: “Twelve o’clock; time we were going, if you have seen enough of your ancestors. I’m getting hungry.”