It was a rare morning—one of the first September days, when the early blaze of autumn begins to kindle along the hills, when there is just a spice of frost in the air, when the air and sunlight combine in a tonic that lifts the heart, the soul, almost the body itself, from the material earth.
"If you are Minerva, then I am Mercury," Frank declared as they ascended the first rise. "I feel that my feet have wings."
Then suddenly he paused, for they had come to a little enclosure, where the bushes had been but recently cleared away. There was a gate, and within a small grave, evidently that of a child; also a headstone upon which was cut the single word, "Constance."
Frank started a little as he read the name, and regarded it wonderingly without speaking. Then he turned to his companion with inquiry in his face.
"That was the first little Constance," she said. "I took her place and name. She always loved this spot, so when she died they laid her here. They expected to come back sooner. Her mother wanted just the name on the stone."
Frank had a strange feeling as he regarded the little grave.
"I never knew that you had lost a sister," he said. "I mean that your parents had buried a little girl. Of course, she died before you were born."
"No," she said, "but her death was a fearful blow. Mamma can hardly speak of it even to-day. She could never confess that her little girl was dead, so they called me by her name. I cannot explain it all now."
Frank said musingly:
"I remember your saying once that you were not even what you seemed to be. Is this what you meant?"