Gertie was very eloquent and earnest, and emphasized her “down—down—down” with a wave of her hand in the air and a stamp of her foot upon the ground, while Edith, who could not speak for the fingers at her throat, sat gazing at her, motionless and completely fascinated by her face, and manner, and voice, which last had in it the ring of something familiar,—something heard years ago, when she was young and listened to the bell in the old church-tower ringing on a Sunday morning. When she could speak, she asked:
“How did you learn all this, and who keeps the grave so nicely?”
“I do; for you see Miss Armstrong,—that’s my teacher, she was at church to-day, and plays the organ,—she came here with me one time, and, when I asked about the graves, she told me whose they were,—that is, the newest ones. That great, tall stone is the first Mrs. Schuyler; but you don’t care for that. She was not half as pretty as you, they say, and so he had to get her this grand stone, which cost two or three thousand dollars. I dote on graves, and like to hear about them, and Miss Armstrong told me about this poor boy, or man he must have been, for he was a young girl’s beau, I guess.”
“A what?” Edith gasped. And Gertie went on:
“There was a beautiful young girl here then, from England,—Heloise Fordham,—and she liked Mr. Lyle, and he liked her, and she cried so when he was killed, and had a dreadful headache; and when she went away, she made Miss Armstrong promise to keep up the grave till she came back to see it, and to water the rosebush which she set out, and keep the vase full of flowers in the summer time. And Miss Armstrong did water the rose,—and for a while she tended the grave, hoping to hear from the girl, or that she would come; but she never did, and so at last she grew tired like and careless, and, when she told me about it that day, it was a sight to see for weeds. I like to dig and work in the dirt, and so I made it nice, thinking Godfrey would be pleased; and then, too, do you know, I do it part for the girl, Heloise, who lived in the very house where I live now, and slept in my room. And the poor man was carried there, and his coffin and funeral were in the great room; but I never told auntie, because she is afraid of ghosts. I am not, though, and I like to think about him and her, and to make believe she is there with me, crying by the window for the lover dead down stairs; and once,—it’s funny, but it was the night you came,—I lay awake ever so long, and fancied she was there, and, before I knew it, said right out aloud, ‘Poor Heloise, Gertie is sorry for you.’”
“Oh, child, child, hush, hush!” Edith cried, as she drew Gertie to her and pressed her close to her side.
“Why, is it wicked? Was it naughty to make believe she was there and talk to her?” Gertie asked, wonderingly; and Edith replied:
“No, no, not that; talk to her, pity her, pray for her all you please; and tell me, has nothing been heard of her since she went away?”
“Nothing, I guess; and Miss Armstrong said maybe she’s dead or married. I do not like to think her dead. I’d rather believe her married and alive. Don’t you suppose she is?”
“Yes, I believe she is married; and I know she would be so grateful to you and love you so much if she knew what care you take of the grave.” And obeying an impulse she could not resist, Edith smoothed the bright hair back from the fair white forehead, and looking straight into the clear, blue eyes, kissed the child, whose lips kissed back again and sent a strange tremor through every nerve of Edith’s body.