'Nay—nay—nay,' exclaimed Mary; 'can you think so vilely of me? Perhaps I might have wept for him?'
'Indeed. Why?'
'In the knowledge that, like Ellinor and myself, he had no father, mother, or other kindred to sorrow for him.'
Her voice, musical at all times, and sweetly modulated—for a chord seemed to run through every word—broke a little just then; and she coloured on seeing how earnestly her companion was regarding her.
'For what purpose are those wreaths of flowers?' he asked, softly, after a pause.
'To lay upon our graves.'
'Our graves,' he repeated.
'Papa and mamma's graves, I mean.'
'A melancholy duty.'
'The only one that is left us now.'