Carolyn May sighed. “I just wish I could clean up all this cemetery. I think, maybe, it would please them.”
“Please whom?” asked the minister rather startled.
“Why, the folks that are buried here! I suppose they must know about it. Their spirits, of course—the parts of ’em that keep on living. I should think it would please ’em if their graves were kept neat.”
Mr. Driggs looked thoughtfully about the untidy graveyard.
“It would seem as though ‘out of sight is out of mind’ in many cases of old graveyards, Carolyn May. Yes, you are right. Families move away or die out entirely. The burial lots are left to the mercy of strangers.
“‘Brother, keep my memory green!’ And we forget the friend who has really meant much to us—or, perhaps, we beflower the grave once a year. But that does not keep his memory green; it is only a salve to our own consciences. Perhaps Memorial Day is of doubtful value, after all.”
Probably Carolyn May had not heard the clergyman’s comment. Surely, she had not understood it. But she said now:
“Yes. There’s Miss Wade—over yonder.”
“Eh?” exclaimed the minister, turning quickly, expecting to see the person of whom Carolyn May spoke. “There’s who?”
“Miss Wade. Or, I s’pose she was a miss. She’s not a ‘spouse,’ or a ‘beloved relict,’ or ‘wife of the above.’ So, I guess, she was a maiden lady.”