And so it was, that on Easter Sunday—not altogether without that "pomp and circumstance" which, from time immemorial, had attended the Mansion House funerals—I arranged her burial. With the sweet spring air coming in at the open sunny window—flowers perfuming and brightening the house and clasped loosely in her folded hands, and with so sweet a smile upon her lips that it half seemed a welcome to the neighbors and friends who looked their last upon her benignant face, still untouched by "the finger of decay"—I gave her grudgingly to the cold dark grave, where among her dear kindred (in a self-chosen site) we laid her—"ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
The simple head-stone appointed by herself marks the spot; it holds this tender legend, prepared by one who knew her:
"Her life was sweet with charity and patience."
I like to fancy her "homing shade" still, in the long summer afternoons, haunting the old garden of her love; watching, as of old, the flitting of butterflies, listening to the glad singing of birds, and marking upon the lawn the lovely shadows lengthen in the west'ring sun.
"Only the forgotten are dead."
CHAPTER VI
Burglar-proof
That strain in the New England make-up which manifests itself in "taking care of things" ran in the blood of the dear Lady.