enough, though she never felt intimate with him, as she did with Susan
Dyer and the dear child Love Good, who slept beneath this low white
stone. This was Melody's favorite grave. It was such a dear quaint
little name,--Love Good. "Good" had been a common name in the village
seventy years ago, when this little Love lived and died; many graves
bore the name, though no living person now claimed it.

LOVE GOOD,

FOUR YEARS OLD.

Our white rose withered in the bud.

This was all; and somehow Melody felt that she knew and cared for
these parents much more than for those who put their sorrow into
rhyme, and mourned in despairing doggerel.

Melody laid her soft warm cheek against the little white stone, and
murmured loving words to it. The squirrel sat still in her lap,
content to nestle under her hand, and bask in the light and warmth of
the summer day: the sunlight streamed with tempered glow through the
branches of an old cedar that grew beside the little grave; peace and
silence brooded like a dove over the holy place.

A flutter of wings, a rustle of leaves,--was it a fairy alighting on
the old cedar-tree? No, only an oriole; though some have said that
this bird is a fairy prince in disguise, and that if he can win the
love of a pure maiden the spell will be loosed, and he will regain his
own form. This cannot be true, however; for Melody knows Golden Robin
well, and loves him well, and he loves her in his own way, yet has