ghost-like in the wind, you will come to a dingy railed-in
churchyard, surrounded on all sides by cheerless, many-peopled
houses. Sad-looking little old houses they are, in spite of the
tumult of life about their ever open doors. They and the ancient
church in their midst seem weary of the ceaseless jangle around them.
Perhaps, standing there for so many years, listening to the long
silence of the dead, the fretful voices of the living sound foolish
in their ears.

Peering through the railings on the side nearest the river, you will
see beneath the shadow of the soot-grimed church's soot-grimed porch-
-that is, if the sun happen, by rare chance, to be strong enough to
cast any shadow at all in that region of grey light--a curiously high
and narrow headstone that once was white and straight, not tottering
and bent with age as it is now. There is upon this stone a carving
in bas-relief, as you will see for yourself if you will make your way
to it through the gateway on the opposite side of the square. It
represents, so far as can be made out, for it is much worn by time
and dirt, a figure lying on the ground with another figure bending
over it, while at a little distance stands a third object. But this
last is so indistinct that it might be almost anything, from an angel
to a post.

And below the carving are the words (already half obliterated) that I
have used for the title of this story.

Should you ever wander of a Sunday morning within sound of the
cracked bell that calls a few habit-bound, old-fashioned folk to
worship within those damp-stained walls, and drop into talk with the
old men who on such days sometimes sit, each in his brass-buttoned