DID you ever go into a graveyard¹, and walk around among the graves? Did you ever measure whether any of the little mounds³ were shorter than you?

 

I am going to tell you a true story about a grave I once saw. It was on a lovely June day, that, in company with some friends, I took the cars to visit a large cemetery⁴ in the State of New York. As we were all strangers, we paid a man, whom we found near the gate, to show us the way through the winding⁵ paths, to the handsomest parts of the place. As we walked along, on every side of us were splendid monuments marking the spot where some dear father or mother or child had been buried.

 

Presently I heard the voices of children, and then a sweet, musical laugh. I hurried on to the edge of a lovely lake, and there saw a dear little girl throwing crumbs⁷ from her basket to some beautiful white swans that were springing from the water to catch them. Her brother, a year or two older than she, was standing⁸ by her side, looking pleased to see her so happy.

 

"What is your name, little girl?" I asked.

 

She gave me a quick glance from under her long lashes⁹, and then softly answered, "Lily."

 

I smiled as I took her hand in mine; and then her brother said, "Her name is Lily Oliver. We come here almost every day to feed the swans, and bring flowers for mother's grave."

 

He glanced toward a handsome monument, close by, and Lily explained, "Mamma's in there. She's waiting for Berty and me, 'cause we're going up to God with her."

 

"She told us she'd wait," urged the boy, fixing his earnest eyes on mine. "Every night we pray to God to let us go quick, because we want to see her so."

 

There was a quiver in his voice, which brought tears to my eyes. For a moment I could not speak, my heart ached so much for these dear little ones whose mother was in heaven.

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