no idea of lowering its dignity by any "quips and cranks and wanton
wiles," such as young folks nowadays indulge in. Briefly, it was a
work of art; and when it was over, and the sweeping courtesy and
splendid bow had restored the old-time dancers to their places, a
shout of applause went up, and the air rang with such a tumult as had
never before, perhaps, disturbed the tranquillity of the country road.




CHAPTER V.

IN THE CHURCHYARD.


God's Acre! A New England burying-ground,--who does not know the
aspect of the place? A savage plot of ground, where nothing else would
grow save this crop of gray stones, and other gray stones formless and
grim, thrusting their rugged faces out here and there through the
scanty soil. Other stones, again, enclosing the whole with a grim,
protecting arm, a ragged wall, all jagged, formless, rough. The grass
is long and yet sparse; here and there a few flowers cling, hardy
geraniums, lychnis, and the like, but they seem strangely out of
place. The stones are fallen awry, and lean toward each other as if
they exchanged confidences, and speculated on the probable spiritual
whereabouts of the souls whose former bodies they guard. Most of these
stones are gray slate, carved with old-fashioned letters, round and
long-tailed; but there are a few slabs of white marble, and in one
corner is a marble lamb, looking singularly like the woolly lambs one
buys for children, standing stiff and solemn on his four straight