That was nearly two years before the summer day of which we write. She had fished and hunted with Frank since then, and told him of Niblo’s as of a place he had never seen, and said good-by to Roger, who was going off to Europe, and who had enjoined upon her sundry things she was to do during his absence, one of which was always to carry the Saturday’s bouquet to his father’s grave. This practice Roger had kept up ever since his father died, taking the flowers himself when he was at home, and leaving orders for Hester to see that they were sent when he was away. Magdalen, who had frequently been with him to the graveyard, knew that the Jessie whose name was on the marble was buried in the sea, for Roger had told her of the burning ship, and the beautiful woman who went down with it. And with her shrewd perceptions, Magdalen had guessed that the flowers offered weekly to the dead were more for the mother, who was not there, than for the father, who was. And after Roger went away she adopted the plan of taking with her two bouquets, one large and beautiful for Jessie, and a smaller one for the old squire, whose picture on the library-wall she did not altogether fancy.
A visit to the cemetery was always one of the duties of Saturday, and toward the middle of the afternoon, on a bright day in July, Magdalen started as usual with her basket of flowers on her arm. She liked going to that little yard where the shadows from the evergreens fell so softly upon the grass, and the white rose-bush which Roger had planted was climbing up the tall monument and shedding its sweet perfume on the air. There was an iron chair in the yard, where Magdalen sat down, and divesting herself of her shoes and stockings, cooled her bare feet on the grass and hummed snatches of songs learned from Frank, who affected to play the guitar and accompany it with his voice. And while she is sitting there we will give a pen-and-ink photograph of her as she was at twelve years of age. A straight, lithe little figure, with head set so erect upon her shoulders that it leaned back rather than forward. A full, round face, with features very regular, except the nose, which had a slight inclination upward, and which Frank teasingly called “a turn-up.” Masses of dark hair, which neither curled nor lay straight upon the well-shaped head, but rippled in soft waves all over it, and was kept short in the neck by Hester, who “didn’t believe much in hair,” and who often deplored Magdalen’s “heavy mop,” until the child was old enough to attend to it herself. A clear, brown complexion, with a rich, healthful tint on cheek and lip, and a fairer, lighter coloring upon the low, wide forehead; dark, hazel eyes, which, under strong excitement, would grow black as night and flash forth fiery gleams, but which ordinarily were soft and mild and bright, as the stars to which Frank likened them. The eyes were the strongest point in Magdalen’s face, and made her very handsome in spite of the outlandish dress in which Hester always arrayed her, and the rather awkward manner in which she carried her hands and elbows. Hester ignored fashions. If Magdalen was only clean and neat, that was all she thought necessary, and she put the child in clothes old enough for herself, and Frank often ridiculed the queer-looking dresses buttoned up before, and far too long for a girl of Magdalen’s age.
Except for Frank’s teasing remarks, Magdalen would have cared very little for her personal appearance, and as he was in New Haven now she was having a nice time alone in the cemetery, with her shoes and stockings off to cool her feet, and her bonnet off to cool her head, round which her short, damp hair was curling more than usual. She was thinking of Jessie, and wondering how she happened to be on the ocean, and where she was going, and she did not at first see the stranger coming down the walk in the direction of the yard where she was sitting. He was apparently between fifty and sixty, for his hair was very gray, and there were deep-cut lines about his eyes and mouth; but he was very fine-looking still, and a man to be noticed and commented upon among a thousand.
He was coming directly to Squire Irving’s lot, where he stood a moment with his hand upon the iron fence before Magdalen saw him. With a blush and a start she sprang up, and tried, by bending her knees, to make her dress cover her bare feet, which, nevertheless, were plainly visible, as she modestly answered the stranger’s questions.
“Good afternoon, Miss,” he said, touching his hat to her as politely as if she had been a princess, instead of a barefoot girl. “You have chosen a novel, but very pleasant place for an afternoon reverie. Whose yard is this, and whose little girl are you?”
“I am Mr. Roger’s little girl, and this is Squire Irving’s lot. That’s his monument,” Magdalen replied; and at the sound of her voice and the lifting up of her eyes the stranger looked curiously at her.
“What is your name, and what are you doing here?” he asked her next; and she replied, “I came with flowers for the grave. I bring them every Saturday, and my name is Magdalen.”
This time the stranger started, and without waiting to go round to the gate, sprang over the iron fence and came to Magdalen’s side.
“Magdalen whom?” he asked. “Magdalen Rogers?”
“No, sir. Magdalen Lennox. I haven’t any father nor mother, and I live up at Millbank. You can just see it through the trees. Squire Irving used to live there, but since he died it belongs to Mr. Roger, and he has gone to Europe, and told me to bring flowers every Saturday to the graves. That’s his father,” she continued, pointing to the squire’s name, “and that,” pointing to Jessie’s name, “is his mother; only she is not here, you know. She died on the sea.”