while he waited in
vain for her coming or her token? Her departure had not brought Eleanor
Purcill and Thornton Lee together; for his aunt still remained
unwedded, and he came every Sunday to the village church, with a sweet
matronly-faced woman on his arm, and two children by his side.

Bradford thrust the journal into his pocket, took up his fishing-rod
and basket, and sauntered towards the village. He thought he remembered
the name of Elizabeth Purcill on a head-stone in the church-yard. He
opened the little wicket and went in. The setting sun threw the long
shadows of the head-stones across the thick, rank grass. The sounds of
the village children at play on the green came to his ear softened and
mellowed by the distance.

He turned towards the spot where, year after year, the Purcills had
been gathered,--those who had died in their beds in their native town,
and those who had perished in far-off climes, and whose bones had been
brought to moulder by the old church-wall. He found the stone, and,
bending down, read, "Elizabeth Purcill, died Oct. 5th, 18--, aged 19."
Bradford opened the journal and looked at the last date. She had died,
then, the day after the journal was ended. But how, and where?

He sat down on the flat stone which covered his grandfather, and turned
over the pages again, as if they could tell him more than he already
knew. So absorbed was he, that he did not see a woman who a few minutes
afterwards knelt down before the same stone, and with a sickle began to
cut away the weeds and grass.

Bradford looked up at last, and, as the woman raised her head for an
instant, saw that it was Mrs. Bickford. He approached her and called
her by name. She gave a little start, as she heard his voice.

"Why, Master Bradford, who would have thought of seeing you here at
this time?"

Bradford smiled. "Whose grave is this that you are taking such pains to
clear?"

She pointed to the name with her sickle.

"Yes, I know all that that can tell me. But who was Elizabeth
Purcill?--what relation was she to me?--and how came she to die so
young, and to be buried here?"

"Why do you think I should know?" she replied. "People often die young;
and no matter where the Purcills die, they all wish to come here at
last;--that one died in Cuba,--that in France,--that in Greece,--and
that at sea." And she turned her hand towards them, as she spoke.

"But you do not care for their graves; look, how the grass and weeds
n