want to go to the cemetery with me this afternoon, pet? Aunt Genevieve has
the carriage, and I think a walk will do me good."

The walk along the shady street and through the grassy lane to the gate at
the foot of the hill was as pleasant as a walk could be that summer day.
Rosalind kept sedately by her grandmother's side, and the face under the
drooping hat was grave. Behind them walked Martin with some garden tools
and a watering-pot.

The serious eyes brightened, and the lips curved into a smile at sight of
Maurice and Katherine playing dominos under the maple. How lovely it must
be to have a brother or sister to play with and talk to!

The cemetery was not new to Rosalind, for Mrs. Whittredge on her daily
drive usually stopped there, and its winding paths and green slopes, its
drooping willows and graceful oaks, and the flowers that bloomed
everywhere, around the stately shafts of marble and the low headstones,
seemed to her very pleasant. Here, however, her grandmother's sadness took
on a deeper tinge as she moved among the mounds that lay in the shadow of
the massive granite monument with "Whittredge" in letters of bronze at its
base.

As Martin went to work trimming the ivy under his mistress's direction,
Rosalind wandered away by herself across the hill-top, pausing now and
then to read an inscription and do a sum in subtraction, on the result of
which her interest largely depended. "Lily, born 1878, died 1888," stirred
her imagination, and she sat down to consider it at length. How old would
Lily be now if she had lived? She tried to think how her own name would
look on a stone. It was still and peaceful on that sunny hillside; it
reminded her of "Sharon's lovely rose." The idea of a grave here was not