Betty herself could not remember having been on a longer trip than to
Livermore, a village ten miles away. There was an excited flutter in her
throat as the wagon started forward with a jolt, and she realised that
now she was looking her last on safe familiar scenes, and breaking loose
from all safe familiar landmarks.

"Good-bye!" she cried again, looking back at the little group on the
porch with tears in her eyes.

"Good-bye! Good-bye!" they called, in a noisy chorus, repeating the call
like a brood of clacking guineas, until the wagon passed out of sight
down the lane. The road turned at the church. Betty leaned forward for
one more look at the window, on whose sill she had passed so many happy
afternoons reading to Davy. The board was still leaning against the
house, where she had propped it.

"Good-bye, dear old church," she said softly to herself.

They drove around the corner of the little neglected graveyard, where
the headstones gleamed white in the morning sunshine, above the dark,
glossy green of the myrtle vines. How peaceful and quiet it seemed. The
dew still shone in tiny beads on the cobwebs, spun across the grass, a
spicy smell of cedar boughs floated across the road to them, and a dove
called somewhere in the distant woodlands. As they passed, a wild rose
hung over the gray pickets of the straggling old fence, and waved a
spray of pale pink blossoms to them.

"Good-bye," she whispered, turning for one more look at the familiar
headstones. They were like old friends; she had wandered among them so