Countess Vera's bridal tour was to the United States. Her husband was thoroughly patriotic, and desired to rid her mind of the prejudice she had taken against her native land, owing to the trials of her early youth.
They traveled leisurely and pleasantly all over their own native country, mixed in society, and viewed everything dispassionately, until the lovely countess owned that she had erred in disliking America and Americans.
"Yet I have nobly atoned for my early mistake by taking an American for my husband," she always declares, when Colonel Lockhart twits her with her early aversion.
One day they found themselves in the beautiful city of Washington, and Lady Vera expressed a wish to visit her mother's grave.
It was a lovely day in spring, sweet with the breath of early flowers, when they strolled through the whispering shades of Glenwood to seek the quiet grave where Mrs. Campbell's broken heart had found rest and peace. The turf was springing green and freshly above the low mound, and fragrant violets and tender daisies starred the ground. On the marble cross at the head of the grave was carved her name and age, and one passionate plaint from her husband's bleeding and remorseful heart:
"Oh, God, since she could die,
The world's a grave, and hope lies buried here."
"Poor mother, poor father!" Lady Vera weeps, her tears falling on the green grass for the sad fate of those two who had given her life.
When she lifts her head again she sees her husband standing by the opposite mound beneath the shadow of a tall, pretentious monument.
"Do you care to see this, my darling?" he asks her, very gently.
Silently she glides to his side, and circled by his fond, protecting arm, reads the brief inscription, not without something of a shudder creeping over her sensitive frame.