place was lonely and lovely. We had come, as Preston guessed,
to the river, and the shore was here high; so that we looked
down upon the dark little stream far below us. The sunlight,
getting low by this time, hardly touched it; but streamed
through the pine trees and over the grass and gilded the white
marble with gold.

"I did not mean to bring you here," said Preston. "I did not
know I was bringing you here. Come, Daisy — we'll go and try
again."

"Oh, stop!" I said — "I like it. I want to look at it."

"It is the cemetery," said Preston. "That tall column is the
monument of our great — no, of our great-great-grandfather;
and this brown one is for mamma's father. Come, Daisy! —"

"Wait a little," I said. "Whose is that with the vase on top?"

"Vase?" said Preston — "it's an urn. It is an urn, Daisy.
People do not put vases on tombstones."

I asked what the difference was.

"The difference? Oh, Daisy, Daisy! Why vases are to put
flowers in; and urns — I'll tell you, Daisy, — I believe it is
because the Romans used to burn the bodies of their friends
and gather up the ashes and keep them in a funeral urn. So an
urn comes to be appropriate to a tombstone."