“I hope we shall.” “So do I; but it was hard work to get him here, and I think he will not come unless he finds it pleasant to do so. My mother thinks so much of the doctor that she will be likely to plead his cause for him.” Julia entered the library just as Dick was going out. Miss Thompson was warmly greeted, and Eugene looked for any change which might have come over his sister since her interview with the doctor. There was none. She was as placid as a summer sea. Dick drove off with the new missionary. He explained to her what his friend was doing for the poor of Poppleton; he described the chapel, and gave John Porter an excellent character. Miss Thompson was sad, silent, and thoughtful. She listened attentively to all that was said to her until they came to the burying-ground. “Was he buried there?” she asked, with much emotion. “He was.” “Has any stone been erected over his grave?” “Not yet.” “That shall be my first duty.” “He was placed in the tomb first, and efforts were made to find his friends. As no one claimed the body, it was buried last summer.” “Do you know where the grave is?” “I do.” “Would it be asking too much of you to show me the way?” “By no means; but do you think it would be best for you to visit the spot?” “I would like to do so.” Dick hitched the horse at the gate of the cemetery, and conducted her to the grave of Eliot Buckstone. Miss Thompson stood in silence gazing at the mound capped with turf. A bunch of flowers which Eugene had gathered for her in the conservatory--for he could not judge of her fitness to do missionary work until he knew whether she really loved flowers--was placed at the head of the grave. Dick retired from the spot, and presently she knelt down, and bowed her head. There were tears in her eyes; they were the first that had been shed at the grave of the murdered man. “Father in heaven, forgive him for the wrong he has done to me and to others,” murmured she. She rose, wiped away her tears, placed the bunch of flowers on the sod above the breast of the sleeper beneath, and turned away. “Mr. Birch, you have been very kind to me; may I dare to ask one more favor of you?” “Certainly.” “Will you have a white marble stone placed at the head of his grave? I will pay for it with the first money I earn.” “We will select one at the Port to-day.” “Thank you. I cannot bear to think of his sleeping there without a stone to mark his resting-place.” “Every thing you desire shall be done; but you must not even mention his name.” “I will not.” They went to the marble works, and the stone was ordered. In a few days it was erected. It bore no record but the name, age, and date of his death. Through the summer that followed, a bunch of fresh flowers was occasionally found on the grave of the murdered man; but no one was seen to place them there, and no one but Dick Birch knew that the female missionary of Eugene Hungerford had ever been interested in the clay beneath the stone.