that it is a foot at all; only Elsie and I chose to fancy so, because
of a story that we used to play at. But we were children then. The
gravestone lies on the ground, within a little bit of a walk of our
door; but this snow has covered it all over; else we might go out and
see it."

"We will go out at any rate," said the Doctor, "and if the Englishman
chooses to come to America, he must take our snows as he finds them.
Take your shovel, Ned, and if necessary we will uncover the
gravestone."

They accordingly muffled themselves in their warmest, and plunged forth
through a back door into Ned and Elsie's playground, as the grim Doctor
was wont to call it. The snow, except in one spot close at hand, lay
deep, like cold oblivion, over the surging graves, and piled itself in
drifted heaps against every stone that raised itself above the level;
it filled enviously the letters of the inscriptions, enveloping all the
dead in one great winding-sheet, whiter and colder than those which
they had individually worn. The dreary space was pathless; not a
footstep had tracked through the heavy snow; for it must be warm
affection indeed that could so melt this wintry impression as to
penetrate through the snow and frozen earth, and establish any warm
thrills with the dead beneath: daisies, grass, genial earth, these
allow of the magnetism of such sentiments; but winter sends them
shivering back to the baffled heart.

"Well, Ned," said the Doctor, impatiently.

Ned looked about him somewhat bewildered, and then pointed to a spot
within not more than ten paces of the threshold which they had just