"_I_ should keep harriers, and not a poodle, if I were a man," said
Deordie; "but I suppose you could, if you wanted to."

"Nothing to cry about, at any rate?"

"I should think not!" said Deordie.--"There's Mother, though; let's go
and ask her about the tea;" and off they ran.

The Doctor stretched his six feet of length upon the sward, dropped his
grey head on a little heap of newly-mown grass, and looked up into the
sky.

"Awfully jolly--no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem," said he,
laughing to himself. "Nothing else to wish for; nothing to cry about."

Nevertheless, he lay still, staring at the sky, till the smile died
away, and tears came into his eyes. Fortunately, no one was there to
see.

What could this "awfully jolly" Doctor be thinking of to make him cry?
He was thinking of a grave-stone in the churchyard close by, and of a
story connected with this grave-stone which was known to everybody in
the place who was old enough to remember it. This story has nothing to
do with the present story, so it ought not to be told.

And yet it has to do with the Doctor, and is very
short, so it shall be put in, after all.


THE STORY OF A GRAVE-STONE.