“That afternoon I was restless and wretched. I could not remain quietly in any place, but wandered uneasily about until near nightfall, when I stole out unobserved and took my way to the burying-ground, where Anna and Robin were. Just outside the iron railing which enclosed their graves there was a rude, time-worn seat, placed upon the grass-plat years ago, it would seem, from the names and dates carved upon it. Here I sat down, and leaning my face upon my hand, tried to think of all that had transpired since I had come to Morrisville. Had I known all I was to see and hear, would I have wished to come? I asked myself; but could find no satisfactory answer. I was glad I had known Robin, for his memory would be a sacred thing to me, and I said I was glad I had heard of Anna ere I learned to think too much of Richard. Then thoughts of Jessie arose, and I said aloud, ‘Can he ever forget Anna, who died in his arms?’
“‘No, Dora, I shall never forget her, neither can I mourn for her always, as I mourned when we first laid her here, and I sat nearly all the night just where you are sitting, watching the stars as they held their first vigil over Anna’s grave, and almost impiously questioning the Providence which had dealt so strangely with me.’
“I knew it was Richard’s voice speaking to me, and I gave a little start of surprise, but did not lose a word which he had spoken.
“‘I half believed I should find you here,’ he said, sitting down beside me, and drawing a little more about my neck the shawl which had fallen off. ‘Something told me I should find you, and so I came quite as much to join the living as the dead. Dora, you will forgive the familiarity,—I never called you so at home, but here, where you have done me and mine so much good, you will surely let me use a name which mother and Robin adopted.’
“I bowed, and he went on.
“‘You do not know how glad I am that you were with us when Robin died, or how it lessens the smart to have you sitting with me in sight of Robin’s grave.’
“‘And Anna’s?’ I said, looking at him for the first time.
“‘Yes, Anna’s,’ he continued in the same kind tone; ‘and it is of her I would tell you, Dora,’ and he spoke hurriedly now. ‘How much do you know of Anna, and who told you?’
“‘Sarah Felton; and I know more than I wish I did,’ I answered, my voice full of tears, which I could not repress.
“‘Felton!’ he repeated in dismay. ‘Unless her reputation for veracity has improved, I would not vouch for the truth of what she might say, though she liked Anna. Shall I tell you her history, Dora?’