tter who it's about," said the Story
Girl with ungrammatical relish.

There was as yet no one in the church when we reached it, so we took our
accustomed ramble through the graveyard surrounding it. The Story Girl
had brought flowers for her mother's grave as usual, and while she
arranged them on it the rest of us read for the hundredth time the
epitaph on Great-Grandfather King's tombstone, which had been composed
by Great-Grandmother King. That epitaph was quite famous among the
little family traditions that entwine every household with mingled mirth
and sorrow, smiles and tears. It had a perennial fascination for us
and we read it over every Sunday. Cut deeply in the upright slab of red
Island sandstone, the epitaph ran as follows:--

SWEET DEPARTED SPIRIT

Do receive the vows a grateful widow pays,
Each future day and night shall hear her speak her Isaac's praise.
Though thy beloved form must in the grave decay
Yet from her heart thy memory no time, no change shall steal away.
Do thou from mansions of eternal bliss
Remember thy distressed relict.
Look on her with an angel's love--
Soothe her sad life and cheer her end
Through this world's dangers and its griefs.
Then meet her with thy well-known smiles and welcome
At the last great day.

"Well, I can't make out what the old lady was driving at," said Dan.

"That's a nice way to speak of your great-grandmother," said Felicity
severely.

"How does The Family Guide say you ought to speak of your great-grandma,
sweet one?" asked Dan.

"There is one thing about it that puzzles me," remarked Cecily. "She
calls herself a GRATEFUL widow. Now, what was she grateful for?"

"Because she was rid of him at last," said graceless Dan.

"Oh, it couldn't have been that," protested Cecily seriously. "I've
always heard that Great-Grandfather and Great-Grandmother were very much
attached to each other."

"Maybe, then, it means she was grateful that she'd had him as long as
she did," suggested Peter.

"She was grateful to him because he had been so kind to her in life, I
think," said Felicity.

"What is a 'distressed relict'?" asked Felix.

"'Relict' is a word I hate," said the Story Girl. "It sounds so much
like relic. Relict means just the same as widow, only a man can be a
relict, too."

"Great-Grandmother seemed to run short of rhymes at the last of the
epitaph," commented Dan.

"Finding rhymes isn't a