letters of the inscription being barely discernible.

"How do you do, Mr. Bascom?" said this singular child, laying her hand
respectfully on the venerable headstone. "Are your dandelions very
troublesome this morning, dear sir?"

Her light fingers hovered over the mound like butterflies, and she
began pulling up the dandelion roots, and smoothing down the grass
over the bare places. Then she fell to work on the inscription, which
was an elaborate one, surmounted by two cherubs' heads, one resting on
an hour-glass, the other on a pair of cross-bones. Along every line
she passed her delicate fingers, not because she did not know every
line, but that she might trace any new growth of moss or lichen.

"Farewell this flesh, these ears, these eyes,
Those snares and fetters of the mind
My God, nor let this frame arise
Till every dust be well refined."

"You were very particular, Mr. Bascom, weren't you?" inquired Melody.
"You were a very neat old gentleman, with white hair always brushed
just so, and a high collar. You didn't like dust, unless it was well
refined. I shouldn't wonder if you washed your walking-stick every
time you came home, like Mr. Cuter, over at the Corners. Here's
something growing in the tail of your last _y_. Never mind, Mr.
Bascom, I'll get it out with a pin. There, now you are quite
respectable, and you look very nice indeed. Good-by, and do try not to
fret more than you can help about the dandelions. They will grow, no
matter how often I come."