lengthy inscription, recording his whole history in brief, and
finishing with eight lines of original verse composed by his
widow. I do not think that poetry was Great-grandmother King's
strong point. When Felix read it, on our first Sunday in
Carlisle, he remarked dubiously that it LOOKED like poetry but
didn't SOUND like it.

There, too, slept the Emily whose faithful spirit was supposed to
haunt the orchard; but Edith who had kissed the poet lay not with
her kindred. She had died in a far, foreign land, and the murmur
of an alien sea sounded about her grave.

White marble tablets, ornamented with weeping willow trees,
marked where Grandfather and Grandmother King were buried, and a
single shaft of red Scotch granite stood between the graves of
Aunt Felicity and Uncle Felix. The Story Girl lingered to lay a
bunch of wild violets, misty blue and faintly sweet, on her
mother's grave; and then she read aloud the verse on the stone.

"'They were lovely and pleasant in their lives and in their death
they were not divided.'"

The tones of her voice brought out the poignant and immortal
beauty and pathos of that wonderful old lament. The girls wiped
their eyes; and we boys felt as if we might have done so, too,
had nobody been looking. What better epitaph could any one wish
than to have it said that he was lovely and pleasant in his life?
When I heard the Story Girl read it I made a secret compact with
myself that I would try to deserve such an epitaph.