railings that divide " our graves" from those surrounding us. 

 A pathway runs through the churchyard, but it is not much 

 frequented ; the labourer may pass through to his daily toi!, 

 or the cottager's wife with her weelily marketings, and now 

 and then the innocent gleeful voice of childhood, or the 

 tenderer whispers of maidenhood may be heard, but there is 

 no ruder sound, and of a summer's evening the nightingales 

 sing their sweetest songs there. 



I am writing far away from that dear spot, and the simple 

 tale I am going to relate belongs to other days. It may be 

 that my thoughts take a softer tone, from the knowledge that 

 time daily brings me nearer and nearer to tlie loved ones who 

 are sleeping in that far-olf peaceful home. 



It was at the close of a soft July day, " long ago," that I 

 entered, as was my wont, the sacred precincts, with a basket 

 of flowers to deck the graves for the approaching Sabbath. 

 I had made a wreath of glorious white lilies, and I was laying 

 it tenderly on the grassy mound, when I was startled by 

 hearing a child's voice of peculiar sweetness at my side . X 

 turned hastily round, and saw a little lad of about six or 

 seven years g.azing earnestly at ray occupation. It seemed 

 as if he had dropped from the clouds, for there was no one 

 near him, and the large grey eyes that fixed themselves 

 inipiiringly on mine, had a searching far-away look that was 

 hardly natural. 



" What is it ? " said the child softly. 



" It is a wreath," I answered. 



" Yes, I know it is a crown, but it is all one. What is 

 it?" 



" Oh," I said, guessing his meaning, " it is a lily." 



Tlie little lad shook his head, and then coming nearer ho 

 almost whispered, " It is not love, for that's a rose. Do you 

 know granny is a rose, and you are like one. A rose is 

 love, you know, but what is that ? " 



The little face was peering at me through the railings, and 

 the dark silky hair fell from beneath a well worn cap, and I 

 thought I had never before, even in beautiful childhood, seen 

 so strangely beautiful a face. 



" Do tell me," he pleaded, " wh.it it is, for there must be 

 one in my crown. It isn't truth, for that's a bluebell, and do 

 you know I never tell a story, because I want lots of blue- 

 bells in my crown." 



What w:is there in the sweet childish face that struck my 

 heart with a pitiful feeling, and yet attracted me with such 

 deep fascination ? It seemed as if a spirit-voice spoke from 

 those lips, parted in their anxious waiting for my answer ; a 

 child and not a child. I took a lily from the basket and 

 gave it to the little fellow, saying, " It is purity." 



" What is that ? " asked the child, caressing the pure 

 white flower. " You see I must know, because I must be 

 like it." 



" It means always speaking gently," I replied, " and never 

 saying naughty words." 



" Is it swearing ? " he asked in a whisper ; " oh, it frightens 

 me." Then the large wistful eyes once more sought mine, 

 and in a frightened tone the child said, " Will all the HIies 

 drop from father's crown ? Poor father." 



I was getting sorely puzzled about my little companion, 

 when I heard a well-known voice calling from the cottage 

 corner close by, " Now, Charlie dear. Miss Mary will be 

 tired of all your chatter." 



" That 's granny ! " cried the child joyfully ; " that 's 

 granny." Then he looked lovingly at the lily, and holding 

 it to his face he said, " Come, and you shall see granny." 



I did not need to ask who "granny" was: the voice told 

 me the little lad's history so far. 



In a sheltered nook of a wide common, a mile from the 

 manufacturing town I have spoken of, there was a cluster of 

 wliitewashed cottages, built upon what I believe is called by 

 the owners a " key holding ;" a very small acknowledgment 

 being paid to the lord of the manor for sufScient land on 

 which to build a cottage, and to form a dear old-fashioned 

 garden, where flowers, fruit, and vegetables contend with 

 one another for precedence. In the prettiest of these cottages 

 lived Charles and Mary Ingram, who from my earliest child- 

 hood I had reckoned as dear friends. Many a cup of tea 

 have I drank by their peaceful fireside ; many a simple song 

 have I sung with the children of the cottage, whose joys and 

 griefs had ever been shared with me. 



And " Charlie " was Mrs. Ingram's grandchild, of whom I 

 had often heard, though the parents had married and settled 

 at some distance from their native place, and had only just 

 returned to occupy a cottage, newly built on a part of the 

 garden of my old friend. 



They Iiad not chosen a happy time for their return, for the 

 trade of Milton had suffered a grievous check, and poverty of 

 tlie direst kind lurked like a wolf round the doors of the 

 inhabitants. 



The new cottage had been begun before the disastrous 

 strike took place, that, coming as it did when there was a 

 glut of ribbon in the market, helped to bring about misery 

 and starvation, such as I trust never to witness again. 



But the house had been built, the " big loom" purchased 

 with the accumulated savings of ni.any years, .and John In- 

 gram had returned to take Ins ])art in the great battle of life. 



And Charlie ? I had often heard from Mrs. Ingram of 



