the lane.

Ashurst pointed to the narrow green mound. "Can you tell me what this
is?"

The old fellow stopped; on his face had come a look as though he were
thinking: 'You've come to the right shop, mister!'

"'Tes a grave," he said.

"But why out here?"

The old man smiled. "That's a tale, as yu may say. An' not the first
time as I've a-told et--there's plenty folks asks 'bout that bit o'
turf. 'Maid's Grave' us calls et, 'ereabouts."

Ashurst held out his pouch. "Have a fill?"

The old man touched his hat again, and slowly filled an old clay pipe.
His eyes, looking upward out of a mass of wrinkles and hair, were still
quite bright.

"If yu don' mind, zurr, I'll zet down my leg's 'urtin' a bit today." And
he sat down on the mound of turf.

"There's always a flower on this grave. An' 'tain't so very lonesome,
neither; brave lot o' folks goes by now, in they new motor cars an'
things--not as 'twas in th' old days. She've a got company up 'ere.
'Twas a poor soul killed 'erself."

"I see!" said Ashurst. "Cross-roads burial. I didn't know that custom
was kept up."

"Ah! but 'twas a main long time ago. Us 'ad a parson as was very
God-fearin' then. Let me see, I've a 'ad my pension six year come
Michaelmas, an' I were just on fifty when t'appened. There's none livin'
knows more about et than what I du. She belonged close 'ere; same farm
as where I used to work along o' Mrs. Narracombe 'tes Nick Narracombe's
now; I dus a bit for 'im still, odd times."

Ashurst, who was leaning against the gate, lighting his pipe, left his
curved hands before his face for long after the flame of the match had
gone out.

"Yes?" he said, and to himself his voice sounded hoarse and queer.

"She was one in an 'underd, poor maid! I putts a flower 'ere every time
I passes. Pretty maid an' gude maid she was, though they wouldn't burry
'er up to th' church, nor where she wanted to be burried neither." The
old labourer paused, and put his hairy, twisted hand flat down on the
turf beside the bluebells.

"Yes?" said Ashurst.

"In a manner of speakin'," the old man went on, "I think as 'twas a
love-story--though there's no one never knu for zartin. Yu can't tell
what's in a maid's 'ead but that's wot I think about it." He drew his
hand along the turf. "I was fond o' that maid--don' know as there was
anyone as wasn' fond of 'er. But she was to lovin'-'earted--that's where
'twas, I think." He looked up. And Ashurst, whose lips were tre