"The people?" — I repeated.

"Yes, the people — the hands."

"There are a great many of them!" I remarked.

"Of course," said Preston. "You see, Daisy, there have been I
don't know how many hundreds of hands here for a great many
years, ever since mother's grandfather's time."

"I should think," said I, looking at the little board slips
and crosses among the pine cones on the ground, — "I should
think they would like to have something nicer to put up over
their graves."

"Nicer? those are good enough," said Preston. "Good enough for
them."

"I should think they would like to have something better," I
said. "Poor people at the North have nicer monuments, I know.
I never saw such monuments in my life."

"Poor people!" cried Preston. "Why, these are the _hands_,
Daisy, — the coloured people. What do they want of monuments?"

"Don't they care?" said I, wondering.

"Who cares if they care? I don't know whether they care," said
Preston, quite out of patience with me, I thought.