"Oh, Aunt Eliza," she cried, as she stood by the green mound, "if only she had not died!"
"God knows best, child," Mrs. Dawson answered softly, much touched by the wistful sadness of Mousey's face.
"It's so kind of Uncle Dick to keep the grave tidy. I wish I could put up a tombstone with their names, and a verse from the Bible; but I expect that would cost a lot of money, and it's no good thinking about it."
They lingered a while longer in the churchyard, and then turned slowly away. Both were disinclined for conversation, so that they had nearly reached home, and were actually within sight of the house, before either spoke. It was Mrs. Dawson who broke the silence by exclaiming—
"Look! What is that boy gazing at, I wonder?"
Mousey raised her eyes, which had been fixed meditatively on the ground, and saw, peering through the thorn hedge which divided her uncle's gardens from the road, a shabbily clad boy. He had his back towards them, so she could not get a glimpse of his face; but there was something familiar in the attitude of the figure, and the way the tweed cap was worn on the back of the head.
"Why, Aunt Eliza, I do believe it is John Monday!" the little girl cried excitedly.
"John Monday!" Mrs. Dawson repeated in astonishment. "Surely you must be mistaken, my dear! What should bring him here?"
"It is John!" Mousey insisted, running forward impetuously, whilst her aunt followed at a quieter pace.
"John, how did you come here? What are you doing?"