"Yes, sir, in the village churchyard. Our clergyman were backward and forward a good bit at the time. There didn't seem no friends nor relatives at the funeral—just a gentleman in black who looked very stern and 'aughty; but he left d'rectly arterward, and he might 'a' bin the lawyer, though I did hear she had nought to leave, poor lady, and it's my belief they was pressed for hunger at the time, from what Mrs. Green have told me!" Rufus dismissed his landlady rather abruptly. To the lonely young fellow, the little child had come as a ray of sunshine; not only bringing a fresh interest into his life, but awakening better feelings and creating higher aims in his soul by her simple faith in God and His Word. He felt bereft without her, and recalled his last conversation with her on the road to school. "You will be back next Saturday, won't you, Mr. Tracy? And we will go to the woods and take our tea with us. I shall feel quite funny walking to school alone again." "Will you miss me, Greta?" She had looked up at him with a serious smile. "I shall not always have you, shall I? When I get bigger and go away from here, I shall be accustomed to walk alone. Becca says it is only the weak sickly trees that want props, a healthy one can grow alone. She says I must go through life without props. Do you think you're a kind of prop, Mr. Tracy? If you are, I think props are very nice, but when I am grown-up I suppose I shan't want you." "I hope you will never cast off old friends, Greta." And then the soft eyes had filled with tears, and she slipped her tiny hand into his. "I've never had such a friend like you, so good and big and strong, and I'll never forget you if I am a hundred years old, but you won't be long away, will you? And you'll come back very soon." And now—when should they meet again? Had they already drifted apart in the wide world, and would the sweet, old-fashioned child become only a pleasant memory of a little bit of the road in his life's journey? With these thoughts he wandered out in the summer dusk to the little village churchyard. He had no difficulty in recognizing the grave: a fresh mound of earth at the foot of an old yew tree, with some faded bluebells placed in the centre was all that was left to mark the last resting-place of poor Mrs. Clay. Rufus stooped and gently detached one of the little faded bluebells. He knew the dell in the wood that they came from, and pictured a lonely little figure in a black frock stealing away under the thickly hanging trees, to sob out her desolation amongst her favorite flowers. "Poor little mite, fatherless and motherless, and only that she-dragon with a face and heart of stone, to turn to for sympathy or comfort. I wonder what will become of her! Will her future life continue to be one of such dreary hardship and stern surroundings at that to which she has always been accustomed!"