ne
trees bein' thicker'n the hair on a dog. It's the gloomiest ol' house
in all creation, I guess. Wal, that's the Squire Fullerton place--he's
Kate's father."

"Does the squire live there?"

"No, sir--not eggzac'ly. He's dyin' there--been dyin' there fer two year
er more. By gosh! It's wonderful how hard 'tis fer some folks to quit
breathin'. Say, be you any o' his fam'ly?"

"No."

"Nor no friend o' his?"

"No!"

"Course not. He never had a friend in his life--too mean! He's too mean
to die, mister--too mean fer hell an' I wouldn't wonder--honest, I
wouldn't--mebbe that's why God is keepin' him here--jest to meller him
up a little. Say, mister, be you in a hurry?"

"No."

"Yis ye be. Everybody's in a hurry--seems to me--since we got steam
power in the country. Say, hitch yer hoss an' come in here. I want to
show ye suthin'."

He seemed to enjoy contradicting me.

"Nobody seems in a hurry in this town," I said.

"Don't, hey? Wal, ye ought to 'a' seen Deacon Norton run when some
punkins on his side hill bu'st their vines an' come rollin' down an'
chased him half a mile into the valley."

I dismounted and hitched my horse to the fence and followed him into the
old churchyard, between weather-stained mossy headstones and graves
overgrown with wild roses. Near the far end of these thick-sown acres he
stopped.

"Here's where the buryin' begun," said my guide. "The first hole in the
hill was dug for a Fullerton."

There were many small monuments and slabs of marble--some spotted with
lichens and all in commemoration of departed Fullertons.

"Say, look a' that," said my guide as he pulled aside the stem of a
leafy brier red with roses. "Jest read that, mister."

My keen eyes slowly spelled out the time-worn words on a slab of stained
marble:

Sacred to the memory of
Katherine Fullerton
1787-1806
"Proclaim his Word in every place
That they are dead who fall from grace."

A dark shadow fell upon the house of my soul and I heard a loud rapping
at its door which confused me until, looking out, I saw the strange
truth of the matter. Rose leaves and blossoms seemed to be trying to
hide it with their beauty, but in vain.

"I understand," I said.

"No ye don't. Leastways I don't believe ye do--not correct. Squire
Fullerton dug a grave here an' had an empty coffin put into it away back
in 1806. It means that he wanted everybody to understan' that his girl
was jest the same a