“I do not feel either solitude or gloom in this spot, Mr. Huyton,” said she, quietly; “but it seems to me a wholesome occupation for the mind sometimes to quit the brightness of life for the calm repose of such a scene as this.”
He did not answer immediately—he was reading the inscription on the headstones before him; she, too, was silent. After some minutes, he turned to her.
“I should like to know the thoughts which occupy you so deeply,” said he.
She colored a little, and replied, “They are sacred to the memory of the departed; but there are so many thoughts which come in such a place as this—I could not tell them if I would.”
“The most prominent one, then—will you not trust me?”
“I was thinking how false our lives are to our professed principles.”
“In what way?” questioned he, curious to learn the feelings of a girl like Hilary, although not in the least entering into them.
“I was thinking,” replied she, “that all words spoken, and thoughts unuttered, too, exist somewhere—are recorded—not passed away into empty air—not perished like the flowers which fall to decay.”
“Well, what then?” said he, not discovering any connection in the ideas.
“How many thousand times have those words been repeated here, in this church-yard, praying that the number of the elect