this, we moved away to other parts of the cemetery, looking at the
tombstones, many of which told sad tales enough of those who died far
away from home and friends. As we wandered on, I noticed a woman
kneeling beside a grave. It grew upon me that the figure was familiar.
Presently I saw who it was, for the face lifted. I excused myself, went
over to her, and said:--"Miss Caron, you are in trouble?"

She looked up, her eyes swimming with tears and pointed to the tombstone.
On it I read:

Sacred to the Memory of
HECTOR CARON,
Ensign in the French Navy.

Erected by his friend, Galt Roscoe,
H.B.M.N.

Beneath this was the simple line:

"Why, what evil hath he done?"

"He was your brother?" I asked.

"Yes, monsieur, my one brother." Her tears dropped slowly.

"And Galt Roscoe, who was he?" asked I.

Through her grief her face was eloquent. "I never saw him--never knew
him," she said. "He saved my poor Hector from much suffering; he nursed
him, and buried him here when he died, and then--that!" pointing to the