They separated a little now, moving about among the headstones, and reading, as they could, the old inscriptions. Some of them were provocative of an amusement which must have its way even in this hallowed spot.
There was one which ran:—
“Here lies, cut down like unripe fruit,
Ye son of Mr. Jonas Boot,
And Mrs. Jemima Boot his wife named Jonathan.”
“I rather hope my ancestor didn’t write that,” said Mr. Hadley. Then, noting the date of the said Jonathan’s death, 1748, he added, with a shake of his head, “But he might; it’s possible, if his poetic genius blossomed early.”
There was another close by which Stella was reading now. It was inscribed to a girl of sixteen:—
“Too good for earth, God in His love,
Took her to dwell with saints above.”
“Poor little thing!” she said, under her breath. “I wonder if she liked living with the saints half as well as with her own girl friends. It’s to be hoped that she found some there.”
There was dignity in one over which Esther was bending now:—
“Let not ye dead forgotten lye,
Lest men forget that they must die;”
and a touch of real tenderness was in the one which stood beside it under the name of a little child:—