legs. This is not the "cemetery," be it understood. That is close by
the village, and is the favorite walk and place of Sunday resort for
its inhabitants. It is trim and well-kept, with gravel paths and
flower-beds, and store of urns and images in "white bronze," for the
people are proud of their cemetery, as well-regulated New England
people should be, and there is a proper feeling of rivalry in the
matter of "moniments."

But Melody cares nothing whatever about the fine cemetery. It is in
the old "berrin'-groun'" that her mother lies,--indeed, she was the
last person buried in it; and it is here that the child loves to
linger and dream the sweet, sad, purposeless dreams of childhood. She
knows nothing of "Old Mortality," yet she is his childish imitator in
this lonely spot. She keeps the weeds in some sort of subjection; she
pulls away the moss and lichens from head and foot stones,--not so
much with any idea of reverence as that she likes to read the
inscriptions, and feel the quaint flourishes and curlicues of the
older gravestones. She has a sense of personal acquaintance with all
the dwellers on this hillside; talks to them and sings to them in her
happy fashion, as she pulls away the witch-grass and sorrel. See her
now, sitting on that low green mound, her white dress gleaming against
the dusky gray of the stone on which she leans. Melody is very fond of
white. It feels smoother than colors, she always says; and she would
wear it constantly if it did not make too much washing. One arm is
thrown over the curve of the headstone, while with the other hand she
follows the worn letters of the inscription, which surely no other
fingers were fine enough to trace.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF