Gold--potent gold--what will it not buy? It opens the gates of the cemetery to the wronged, half-maddened husband and father, it throws off the heavy clods that lie between him and the face he yearns for. Quick and fast fall the rapid strokes of the spade, the dull thud of the fresh earth thrown out on the soft grass is continuous. At last the sexton, pausing to take breath and wipe the beaded dews from his hot brow, utters a smothered cry of dismay: "What was I thinking of to blunder so? I have made a great mistake, sir. This is the daughter's grave, not the mother's." "No matter--go on with your work. Let me see the face of the child that I never beheld in life," Lawrence Campbell answers, resolutely. Seeing how useless would be remonstrance the sexton bends to his task again. In a few minutes the earth is all out, but it requires the united strength of both men to raise the casket and lay it upon the upper ground. "Now the lid--have it off quickly," groans the wretched man; "and the lantern. Bring it near that I may look on my dead." Eagerly he kneels on the ground and scans the beautiful white features of the dead. A groan burst from his lips: "It is _she_, my wife, my lost Edith, still young and beautiful as when I wooed her to be my own! Ah, even time and death could not efface that surpassing loveliness!" But the sexton answers, compassionately: "Ah, sir, it is not your wife, but your daughter. Your wife had grown older and sadder. Her bonny locks were mixed with gray; I used to see her here on many a Sabbath when she came to weep by her parents' graves. This, sir, is your daughter, with her mother's face." "My daughter, with her mother's face!" he cries, and stoops to press a long-lingering kiss on the white brow beneath the careless rings of sunny hair. He starts back with a loud cry: "My God!" The sexton trembles with apprehension. "My dear sir, let me beg you to be more prudent," he whispers. "What if we should be discovered?" But Lawrence Campbell's face is transfigured with a trembling hope and joy. "I believe that I am sane," he exclaims, "I do not believe that I am dreaming. Yet when I kissed Vera's brow it felt warm and moist like the flesh of the living. Tell me, am I right?" The sexton wipes his grimy hand to press it on the fair, girlish brow. He bends his ear to the delicate lips that still retain the warm, natural coloring of life. A smothered cry breaks from him. "You are right, Mr. Campbell. Her flesh is warm and moist, her color is life-like and natural, and she breathes faintly. Oh, wonderful--most wonderful! She seems to be in a deep trance-like sleep. How terrible--how terrible to think of! Your daughter has been buried alive." "She lives!" the father echoes, in wild thankfulness. "She lives and we must carry her to my cottage as soon as possible. She must not awaken in this dreadful place. It would frighten her into real death," answers the sexton.