It was still a
thoroughfare, but a very safe one now, for its only dwelling was a
grave.
On the day after Geordie's death Grace had gone to see the last
resting-place destined for him in the little village churchyard. It was
a dreary patch of ground which looked as if the suns ray's never
penetrated through its high walls on the graves below. Crumbling
grey-lichened headstones peeped dismally from among the long dank grass,
and the little paths were overgrown with weeds. Everywhere there were
traces of unloving carelessness of the dead. And though Grace knew full
well that the silent sleepers below little heeded this selfish
forgetfulness, these surroundings sent a chill to her heart. She thought
she should like all that was left here of her boy-friend to lie in
pleasanter places. Far better he should rest underneath the heathery
sod among the pleasant breezy knolls, consecrated by many a heavenward
thought of the lonely little herd-boy, and by faithful words spoken in
an accepted time to a wayward brother's heart. So Grace made her suit to
the old farmer at a time when his heart was softened, and he was not
unwilling to part with a spot written over with a stinging memory. Miss
Hume, without even consulting Mr. Graham, had agreed to the transfer of
the land; and so it happened that Grace, like the patriarch long ago, a
stranger and sojourner in the land, held as a possession a
burying-place.
The bright summer day had reached its dying hour when the little group
stood on the bank of the river.
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