w said, "I wish you would go away. You see that I
am alone here and in trouble. I can't imagine what motive you can have
for annoying me in this way," her eyes filling with angry tears.

Putnam was too much pained by the vehemence of her language to attempt
any immediate reply. His first impulse was to bow and retire without
more words. But a pertinacity which formed one of his strongest though
perhaps least amiable traits countermanded his impulse, and he said
gravely, "Certainly, I will go at once, but in justice to myself I must
first assure you that I didn't mean to intrude upon you or annoy you in
any way."

She sank down into her chair and averted her face.

"You say," he continued, "that you are in trouble, and I beg you to
believe that I respect your affliction, and that when I spoke to you
just now it was simply to ask pardon for having hurt your feelings
yesterday, without meaning to, by my light mention of the dead. I've
been too near death's door myself lately to joke about it." He paused,
but she remained silent. "I'm going away now," he said softly. "Won't
you say that you excuse me, and that you haven't any hard feelings
toward me?"

"Yes, oh yes," she answered wearily: "I have no feelings. Please go
away."

Putnam raised his hat respectfully, and went off down the pathway. On
reaching the little gate-house he sat down to rest on a bench before the
door. The gatekeeper was standing on the threshold in his shirt-sleeves,
smoking a pipe. "A nice day after the rain, sir," he began.

"Yes, it is."

"Have you any folks here, sir?"

"No, no one. But I come here sometimes for a stroll."

"Yes, I've seen you about. Well, it's a nice, quiet place for a walk,
but the grounds ain't kep' up quite the shape they used to be: there
ain't so much occasion for it. Seems as though the buryin' business was
dull, like pretty much everything else now-a-days."

"Yes, that's so," replied Putnam absently.

The gatekeeper spat reflectively upon the centre of the doorstep, and
resumed: "There's some that comes here quite reg'lar, but they mostly
have folks here. There's old Mrs. Lyon comes very steady, and there's
young Miss Pinckney: she's one of the most reg'lar."

"Is that the young lady in gray, with black eyes?"

"That's she."

"Who is she in mourning for?"

"Well, she ain't exactly in mourning. I guess, from what they say, she
hain't got the money for black bunnets and dresses, poor gal! But it's
her brot