"What names?" I asked.
"Such names as 'Hopestill,' 'Waitstill,' 'Submit,' 'Resignation,' and the like. I read one epitaph over a little baby girl which runs thus:
"'Submit submitted to her Heavenly King,
Being a flower of that Eternal Spring!
Near three years old, she died, in Heaven to wait;
The year was sixteen hundred forty-eight.'
"Not the best of poetry, you will say, but very affecting to my mind."
"Come, come, son," said my father; "we did not come into this mouldy old hole to repeat verses. Let us set to work."
Andrew blushed again, and at once bent himself to the task of removing the heavy stones. This was hard work, especially as it was necessary to make as little noise about it as possible. But it was accomplished at last, and the arched entrance of the passage made practicable. More my father did not care to do.
"Now for the other end," said my father. "Vevette, are you afraid?"
"No indeed!" said I indignantly.
"Vevette is a real Corbet woman!" said Andrew. "She is afraid of nothing."
"Except of being laughed at," returned my father. "Come, then, give me the light. I will go first, and do you young ones follow, carefully, and looking to your steps."