rl. But was it strange or
inexcusable? Had they not lived out their lives of honored
usefulness, and grown old and weary of the battle? And had
not she passed away just as the greater joys of living were
unfolding, and the assurance of happiness was the stronger?
Poor Sylvia!

The spectacle of a correctly dressed, middle-aged man passing
down the street, bearing a somewhat cumbersome burden of
lilies-of-the-valley and forget-me-nots, must have had its
peculiar significance to the inhabitants of the village, and many
curious glances were my reward. I passed along, however, without
explanations in distinct violation of rural etiquette. The old
caretaker of the burying-ground met me at the entrance and gave
me the directions--second path to the right, half way up the
hill, just to the left of the big elm. The old man had known me
as a boy and would have detained me in conversation, but I
pleaded that my time was short, and reluctantly he let me go my
way. Slowly up the hill I walked, occasionally pausing to place a
forget-me-not on the grave of one I had known in childhood. Even
old Barrows did not escape my passing tribute--a cynical,
cross-grained old fellow, the aversion of the boys, who tormented
him and whom he tormented with reciprocal vigor. No need of a
forget-me-not for Barrows, for he never forgot anything, so I
gave his somewhat neglected grave the token of a long stem of
little lilies, in evidence that the past was forgiven, and moved
on to avoid possible protestation.

I paused under the wide-branching elm to recover my breath. The
assent had been arduous for a gentleman inclined to portliness
and with wind impaired by tobacco. I turned to the left, and at
that moment, just before me, a woman's figure slowly rose from
the ground. A creeping sensation possessed me. My heart bounded
and my pulses thrilled. Was this Sylvia risen from the dead?
Surely it was Sylvia's graceful girlish form! This was Sylvia's
oval face, with Sylvia's large gray eyes. In such a way Sylvia's
pretty light hair waved about her temples, and the pink and
white of her delicate complexion revealed the blue veins.
Twenty-five years had rolled back in an instant, and I was
standing in the presence of the past. Alas, the swift passing of
the illusion, for the conversation of the evening came to me.

"You are Phyllis?" I said.

"I am Phyllis," she answered softly--her mother's voice--"and you
are Mr. Stanhope. My aunt told me."

I did