Beyond the town, on the hillside which Edward Lynde had just got within
the focus of his field-glass, was the inevitable cemetery. On a grave
here and there a tiny flag waved in the indolent June breeze. If Lynde
had been standing by the head-stones, he could have read among the
inscriptions such unlocal words as Malvern Hill, Andersonville, Ball's
Bluff, and Gettysburg, and might have seen the withered Decoration Day
wreaths which had been fresh the month before.

Lynde brought his glass to bear on the red brick edifice mentioned, and
fell to pondering it again.

"I'll be hanged if I don't think it's a nunnery," he said. By and by he
let his gaze wander back to the town, in which he detected an appearance
of liveliness and bustle not usual in New England villages, large or
small. The main street was dotted with groups of men and women; and
isolated figures, to which perhaps the distance lent a kind of uncanny
aspect, were to be seen hurrying hither and thither.

"It must be some local celebration," thought Lynde. "Rural oratory and
all that sort of thing. That will be capital!"

He had returned the glass to its leather case, and was settling it well
on his hip, when he saw a man approaching. It was a heavily built old
gentleman in a suit of black alpaca, somewhat frayed and baggy at the
knees, but still respectable. He carried his hat in his hand, fanning
himself with it from time to time, as if overcome by heat and the
fatigue of walking. A profusion of snow-white hair, parted in the
middle, swept down on either side of a face remarkable--if it was
remarkable for anything--for its benign and simple expression. There was
a far-off, indescribable something about this person, as though he had