ntry graveyard. He entered it and knelt by the side of the
new-made grave. Upon the wooden headboard was inscribed the name of
her who slept beneath,--"Ruth Grey."

He kissed the cold sod, his tears falling fast upon it.

"Forgive me," he whispered, as if the dull ear of death could hear.
"Forgive me for everything wherein I failed you. Forgive me,
and--Farewell."

Again he was on his way. At the entrance to the wood he saw a figure
sitting on a rock beside the path. As he drew nearer he observed it
was clad in Indian garb, and evidently awaited his coming. Who was
it? Might it not be some chief, who, having heard of his intended
mission, had come forth to meet him?

He hastened his steps. When he came nearer, he saw that it was only an
Indian woman; a little closer, and to his inexpressible astonishment
he recognized his old nurse.

"What does this mean?" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here, and in
Indian garb, too?"

She rose to her feet with simple, natural dignity.

"It means," she said, "that I go with you. Was I not your nurse in
childhood? Did I not carry you in my arms then, and has not your roof
sheltered me since? Can I forsake him who is as my own child? My heart
has twined around you too long to be torn away. Your path shall be my
path; we go together."

It was in vain that Cecil protested, reasoned, argued.

"I have spoken," she said. "I will not turn back from my words while
life is left me."

He would have pleaded longer, but she threw a light pack upon her back
and went on into the forest. She had made her decision, and he knew
she would adhere to it with the inflexible obstinacy of her race.

He could only follow her regretfully; and yet he could not but be
grateful for her loyalty.

[Illustration: "_I have spoken; I will not turn back from my
words._"]

At the edge of the wood he paused and looked back. Before him lay the
farms and orchards of the Puritans. Here and there a flock of sheep
was being driven from the fold into the pasture, and a girl, bucket in
hand, was taking her way to the milking shed. From each farmhouse a
column of smoke rose into the clear air. Over all shone the glory of
the morning sun. It was civilization; it was New England; it was
_home_.

For a moment, the scene seemed literally to lay hold of him and pull
him back. For a moment, all the domestic feelings, all the refinement
in his nature, rose up in revolt against the rude contact with
barbarism before