s time," rejoined Putnam, pointing out the
date on the wooden slab--"Eighteen fifty-one: it would be older than I
now if it had kept on."

Her eyes fell upon the inscription, and she read it aloud. "Hier ruht in
Gott Heinrich Frantz, Geb. Mai 13, 1851. Gest. August 4, 1852. Wir
hoffen auf Wiedersehen." She repeated the last words softly over to
herself.

"Are those white things cobblestones, or what?" continued Putnam
perversely, indicating the border which quaintly encircled the little
mound. "As I live," he exclaimed, "they are door-knobs!" and he poked
one of them out of the ground with the end of his cane.

"Stop!" she cried vehemently: "how can you do that?"

He dropped his cane and looked at her in wonder. She burst into tears
and turned away. "You think I am a heartless brute?" he cried
remorsefully, hastening after her.

"Oh, go away, please--go away and leave me alone. I am going to my
brother: I want to be alone."

She hurried on, and he paused irresolute. "Miss Pinckney!" he called
after her, but she made no response. His instinct, now aroused too late,
told him that he had better leave her alone for the present. So he
picked up his walking-stick and turned reluctantly homeward. He cursed
himself mentally as he retraced the paths along which they had walked
together a few moments before. "I'm a fool," he said to himself: "I've
gone and upset it all. Couldn't I see that she was feeling badly? I
suppose I imagined that I was funny, and she thought I was an insensible
brute. This comes of giving way to my infernal high spirits." At the
same time a shade of resentment mingled with his self-reproaches. "Why
can't she be a little more cheerful and like other girls, and make some
allowance for a fellow?" he asked. "Her brother wasn't everybody else's
brother. It's downright morbid, this obstinate woe of hers. Other people
have lost friends and got over it."

On the morrow he was to start for the mountains. He visited the cemetery
in the morning, but Miss Pinckney was not there. He did not know her
address, nor could the gatekeeper inform him; and in the afternoon he
set out on his journey with many misgivings.

It was early October when Putnam returned to the city. He went at once
to the cemetery, but on reaching the grave his heart sank at the sight
of a bunch of withered flowers which must have lain many days upon the
mound. The blossoms were black and the stalks brittle and dry. "Can she
have changed he