gate, and as far as the spot where I found the stately pile of the brick
Kreuzkirche; then we turned to the right, and if we had come in cabs we
children got out, it was so hard for the horses to drag the vehicles over
the sandy road which led to the cemetery.

During this walk we gathered blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies from
the fields, bluebells, daisies, ranunculus, and snapdragon from the
narrow border of turf along the roadside, and tied them into bouquets for
the graves. My mother moved silently with us between the rows of grassy
mounds, tombstones, and crosses, while we carried the pots of flowers and
wreaths, which, to afford every one the pleasure of helping, she had
distributed among us at the gravedigger's house, just back of the
cemetery.

Our family burial place--my mother's stone cross now stands there beside
my father's--was one of those bounded in the rear by the church yard
wall; a marble slab set in the masonry bears the owner's name. It is
large enough for us all, and lies at the right of the path between Count
Kalckreuth's and the stately mausoleum which contains the earthly remains
of Moritz von Oppenfeld--who was by far the dearest of our father's
relatives--and his family.

My mother led the way into the small enclosure, which was surrounded by
an iron railing, and prayed or thought silently of the beloved dead who
rested there.

Is there any way for us Protestants, when love for the dead longs to find
expression in action, except to adorn with flowers the places which
contain their earthly remains? Their bright hues and a child's beaming
face are the only cheerful things which a mourner whose wounds are still