careful writing cover it. We read it:

"I do not know how speaks the pious heart; nothing I know; th'
enraptured martyr I. Only I know the tears that brimming start, your
beauty blended with your smile to espy."

Then, having read it, we read it again, moved by a mysterious
influence. And we finger the chance-captured paper, without knowing
what it is, without understanding very well what it says.

* * * * * *

When I asked her to go with me to the cemetery that Sunday, she agreed,
as she does to all I ask her. I watched her arms brush the roses as
she came in through the gardens. We walked in silence; more and more
we are losing the habit of talking to each other. We looked at the
latticed and flower-decked square where our aunt sleeps--the garden
which is only as big as a woman. Returning from the cemetery by way of
the fields, the sun already low, we join hands, seized with triumphant
delight.

She is wearing a dress of black delaine, and the skirt, the sleeves and
the collar wave in the breeze. Sometimes she turns her radiant face to
me and it seems to grow still brighter when she looks at me. Slightly
stooping, she walks, though among the grass and flowers whose tints and
grace shine in reflection on her forehead and cheeks, she is a
giantess. A butterfly precedes us on our path and alights under our
eyes, but when we come up it takes wing again, and comes down a little
farther and begins all over again; and we smile at the butterfly that
thinks of us.