; the whole population of white faces laid their roses and
wept true tears on the graves of their lost ones in the village
churchyard when the Southern Memorial Day came round, and just as
naturally the whole population of black faces went out to the national
cemetery with their flowers on the day when, throughout the North,
spring blossoms were laid on the graves of the soldiers, from the little
Maine village to the stretching ranks of Arlington, from Greenwood to
the far Western burial-places of San Francisco. The keeper joined the
procession and led the way to the parade-ground. As they approached the
trenches, the leader began singing and all joined. "Swing low, sweet
chariot," sang the freedmen, and their hymn rose and fell with strange,
sweet harmony--one of those wild, unwritten melodies which the North
heard with surprise and marveling when, after the war, bands of singers
came to their cities and sang the songs of slavery, in order to gain for
their children the coveted education. "Swing low, sweet chariot," sang
the freedmen, and two by two they passed along, strewing the graves with
flowers till all the green was dotted with color. It was a pathetic
sight to see some of the old men and women, ignorant field-hands, bent,
dull-eyed, and past the possibility of education even in its simplest
forms, carefully placing their poor flowers to the best advantage. They
knew dimly that the men who lay beneath those mounds had done something
wonderful for them and for their children; and so they came bringing
their blossoms, with little intelligence but with much love.

The ceremony over, they retired. As he turned, the keeper caught a
glimpse of Miss Ward's face at the window.

"Hope we's not makin' too free, sah," said the leader, as the
procession, with many a bow and scrape, took leave, "but we's kep' de
day now two years, sah, befo' you came, sah, an we's teachin' de chil'en
to keep it, sah."

The keeper returned to the cottage. "Not a white face," he said.

"Certainly not," replied Miss Ward, crisply.

"I know some graves at the North, Miss Ward, graves of Southern
soldiers, and I know some Northern women who do not scorn to lay a few
flowers on the lonely mounds as they pass by with their blossoms on our
Memorial Day."

"You are fortunate. They must be angels. We have no angels here."

"I am inclined to believe you are right," said the keeper.

That night old Pomp, who had remained invisible in the kitchen