A year later there appeared a stranger in the place, who after some inquiries went to the churchyard and asked the sexton to point out to him where Auntie was buried. There was no headstone, only a green mound. But there were flowers strewn on it; the poor whom she had loved and to whom she had ministered had not forgotten her.
The stranger signed to the sexton to leave him. Then he stood, with folded hands and bowed head, looking at the little heap. He was a young man, but with a seamed face. Presently the tears came into his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “Poor, dear Auntie,” he said in a whisper, “imposed on, ill-treated—only appreciated by me—and that too late.”
He drew out of his pocket a little cross made of perforated cardboard. It had been given years before to young John.
Then he went to a monumental stone-cutter and said: “Make me a marble cross, just like this.”
“And, sir, what shall I cut on it?”
“Only this—Auntie.”