n now if it troubles you;
but tell me first--I am going away to-morrow, and sha'n't be back till
October--shall I find you here then, and may I speak then?"

"I shall be here till winter."

"And may I speak then?"

"Yes."

"And will you listen?"

"Yes."

"Then I can wait."

They moved on again along the cemetery-walks. Putnam felt an exultation
that he could not suppress. In spite of her language, her face and the
tone of her voice had betrayed her. He knew that she cared for him. But
in the blindness of his joy he failed to notice an increasing agitation
in her manner, which foretold the approach of some painful crisis of
feeling. Her conflicting emotions, long pent up, were now in most
delicate equilibrium. The slightest shock might throw them out of
balance. Putnam's nature, though generous and at bottom sympathetic,
lacked the fineness of insight needed to interpret the situation. Like
many men of robust and heedless temperament, he was more used to bend
others' moods to his own than to enter fully into theirs. His way of
approaching the subject had been unfortunate, beginning as he had with a
jest. The sequel was destined to be still more unlucky.

They had reached a part of the cemetery which was not divided into lots,
but formed a sort of burial commons for the behoof of the poor. It was
used mainly by Germans, and the graves were principally those of
children. The headstones were wooden, painted white, with inscriptions
in black or gilt lettering. Humble edgings of white pebbles or shells,
partly embedded in the earth, bordered some of the graves: artificial
flowers, tinsel crosses, hearts and other such fantastic decorations lay
upon the mounds. Putnam's companion paused with an expression of pity
before one of these uncouth sepulchres, a little heap of turf which
covered the body of a "span-long babe."

"Now, isn't that _echt Deutsch_?" began Putnam, whom the gods had made
mad. "Is that glass affair let into the tombstone a looking-glass or a
portrait of the deceased--like that 'statoot of a deceased infant' that
Holmes tells about? Even our ancestral cherub and willow tree are better
than that, or even the inevitable sick lamb and broken lily."

"The people are poor," she murmured.

"They do the same sort of thing when they're rich. It's the national
_Geschmack_ to stick little tawdry fribbles all over the face of
Nature."

"Poor little baby!" she said gently.

"It's a rather old baby by thi