“Oh!” ejaculated the clergyman. “That old stone in the corner?”
“Yes, sir. That leany one. You know it says: ‘Lydia Wade. Died of smallpox. Anno Domini, 1762.’
“I know what anno Domini means. It’s after the birth of Christ. I thought, at first, it was the name of somebody else buried in the same grave—and that he had smallpox, too.
“It must be dreadful to have smallpox and be buried off in one corner of the graveyard by one’s self. Do you s’pose they did that to Miss Wade ’cause they were ’fraid of other folks here catching it?”
“It might be, my dear,” said the clergyman. “But she was buried a long, long time ago. Probably before there was any church here.”
“Well, I guess Miss Wade was buried—poor thing!—so long ago that there isn’t any danger of catching the smallpox from her,” sighed the little girl, yet with relief in her tone. “Anyway, I’m not afraid, for I’ve been vaccernated, and it took!”
The Reverend Afton Driggs thought this a rather gruesome subject for Carolyn May; but, with the latter, everything worth talking about at all could be given a cheerful atmosphere. She got to her feet with a sigh of satisfaction, and Prince awakened out of his doze in the shelter of the wall.
“There! I spect this is the last chance I’ll have to clean up this place ’fore snow flies. Tim, the hackman, says it is bound to snow soon, and the frost has burned ’most all the grass.”
“I presume winter is almost upon us,” agreed Mr. Driggs. “Does the thought of it make you unhappy?”
“Me? Oh, no, Mr. Driggs! I guess we can be just as happy in winter as in summer—or fall—or spring. All we’ve got to do is to look up, and not down, all the time. See how blue the sky is! And there are wild geese flying over, aren’t there?” she cried.