ves. Thus the little procession crossed the Levels to the secluded
enclosure at the far end, Mr. Moore in his surplice leading the way. A
high hedge of cedar-trees set closely together like a wall, their dark
branches sweeping the ground, encircled the place; across the narrow
opening which had been left for entrance, was a low paling-gate. Within,
ranged in a circle, were a number of oblong coquina tombs, broad and
low, without inscriptions; here slept all the Dueros, the first
Englishman, Edgar Thorne, and the few American-born Thornes who had
succeeded him. Into the presence of this company was now borne Melissa
Whiting.

Her coffin was covered with the beautiful flowers of the South; but
within, hidden on her breast, there was a faded spray of arbutus, the
last "May-flowers" which had been sent to her, years before, from her
northern home; she had given them to Margaret, and asked her, when the
time came, to place them there. Thus was she lowered to her rest. All
who were present came one by one, according to Gracias custom, to cast
into the deep grave the handful of white sand which, in Florida,
represents the "earth to earth"--that sound which, soft though it be,
breaks the heart. Garda, shivering, clung to Margaret and hid her face.
Then rose Mr. Moore's voice among them: "I heard a voice from heaven
saying unto me, 'Write. From henceforth blessed are the dead--for they
rest from their labors.'"

Beautiful words, unmeaning to the young and happy, more and more do they
convey to many of us a dear comfort, for ourselves as well as for those
already gone--blessed are the dead, for they rest from their labors. For
they _rest_.

That evening the negroes of the neighborhood assembled at East Angels,
and, standing outside in the darkness, under the windows, sang their own
funeral hymn; their voices rose with sweetness in the wildly plaintive
minor strains; then grew softer and softer, as, still singing sweetly,
they marched quietly away.

And so night closed down over the old southern house. But the little
mother, who had toiled there so long, was gone. She was away in that far
country where we hope we shall no more remember the cares and pain, the
mysteries and bitter griefs of this.

CHAPTER XIV.

The next day it was arranged that Garda should, for the present, remain
where she was; she wished to do this, and Mrs. Carew, unselfish always,
had offered to close her own house (so far as Cynthy and Pompey w