me carved on one of the
oldest stooping stones, and under it a date nearly 100 years old. That
is all. Lois used to wonder who Honor Magor was,--an old woman? a
young one? or possibly even a little girl? Where did she live when she
was alive? how did she come to be buried there? But there are no
answers to any of these questions; and there is no need to know more
than that the tired body of Honor Magor has been resting peacefully
for nearly a century, hidden under the tangle of waving grasses and
ever-changing flowers at Come-to-Good._

_Ever-changing flowers? Yes; because the changing of the seasons is
more marked there than at other places. For Come-to-Good lies so many
miles from any town, the tide of life has ebbed away so far from this
quiet pool, that, for a long time past, Meetings have only been held
here four times in the year. Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring,--each
season brings its own Sunday. Then, and for a week or two beforehand,
the topmost bar of every wooden gate in the neighbourhood bears a
modest piece of white paper announcing that 'a Friends' Meeting will
be held at Come-to-Good on the following First Day morning, at eleven
o'clock, when the company of any who are inclined to attend will be
acceptable.'_

_August Sunday brings deep, red roses tossing themselves up, like a
crimson fountain, against the grey thatched roof. November Sunday has
its own treasures: sweet, late blackberries, crimson and golden
leaves, perhaps even a few late hazel nuts and acorns still hiding
down in the wood. In February, the first gummy stars of the celandine
are to be seen peeping out from under the hedge, while a demure little
procession of white and green snowdrops walks primly up the narrow
path to Meeting. The 'Fair Maids of February' seem to have an especial
love for this quiet spot._

_But in May--ah! May is the best Sunday of all. In May not only is the
whole valley knee-deep in grass and ferns and flowers and bluebells.
There is something still better! In May the burial-ground is all
singing and tinkling silently with fairy spires of columbines. Garden
flowers in most other places, they are quite wild here. Purple and
deep-blue and pale-pink columbines are growing up everywhere; each
flower with its own little pairs of twin turtle-doves hidden away
inside. Even white columbine, rarest of all, has been found in that
magic valley. I am afraid Lois thought longingly, all through the
silence on a May Sunday,