hill, so quiet, so peaceful, so calm, and serene, that death seemed
robbed of half its terrors; white daisies and golden buttercups studded
it, the dense foliage of tall lime-trees rippled above it. The graves
were covered with richly-hued autumn flowers; all was sweet, calm,
restful. There was none of earth's fever here. The tall gray spire of
the church rose toward, the clear blue sky.

Lord Charlewood stood looking around him in silence.

"I have seen such a scene in pictures," he said. "I have read of such in
poems, but it is the first I have really beheld. If my darling could
have chosen for herself, she would have preferred to rest here."

On the western slope, where the warmest and brightest sun beams lay,
under the shade of the rippling lime-trees, they laid Lady Charlewood to
rest. For long years afterward the young husband was to carry with him
the memory of that green grassy grave. A plain white cross bore for the
present her name; it said simply:

In Loving Memory of
MADALINE CHARLEWOOD,
who died in her 20th year.
ERECTED BY HER SORROWING HUSBAND.

"When I give her the monument she deserves," he said. "I can add no
more."

They speak of that funeral to this day in Castledene--of the sad, tragic
story, the fair young mother's death, the husband's wild despair. They
tell how the beautiful stranger was buried when the sun shone and the