would be to me to get into that meadow."

Helen made haste to let him have his will. They prepared a sort of
litter, and the curate and the coachman carried him. Hearing what
they were about, Mrs. Ramshorn hurried into the garden to protest,
but protested in vain, and joined the little procession, walking
with Helen, like a second mourner, after the bier. They crossed the
lawn, and through a double row of small cypresses went winding down
to the underground passage, as if to the tomb itself. They had not
thought of opening the door first, and the place was dark and
sepulchral. Helen hastened to set it wide.

"Lay me down for a moment," said Leopold. "--Here I lie in my tomb!
How soft and brown the light is! I should not mind lying here,
half-asleep, half-awake, for centuries, if only I had the hope of a
right good waking at last."

A flood of fair light flashed in sweet torrent into the place--and
there, framed in the doorway, but far across the green field, stood
the red cow, switching her tail.

"And here comes my resurrection!" cried Leopold. "I have not had
long to wait for it--have I?"

He smiled a pained content as he spoke, and they bore him out into
the sun and air. They set him down in the middle of the field in a
low chair--not far from a small clump of trees, through which the
footpath led to the stile whereon the curate was seated when he
first saw the Polwarths. Mrs. Ramshorn found the fancy of the sick
man pleasant for the hale, and sent for her knitting. Helen sat down