He turned towards the spot where, year after year, the Purcills had been gathered,—­those who had died in their beds in their native town, and those who had perished in far-off climes, and whose bones had been brought to moulder by the old church-wall.  He found the stone, and, bending down, read, “Elizabeth Purcill, died Oct. 5th, 18—­, aged 19.”  Bradford opened the journal and looked at the last date.  She had died, then, the day after the journal was ended.  But how, and where?

He sat down on the flat stone which covered his grandfather, and turned over the pages again, as if they could tell him more than he already knew.  So absorbed was he, that he did not see a woman who a few minutes afterwards knelt down before the same stone, and with a sickle began to cut away the weeds and grass.

Bradford looked up at last, and, as the woman raised her head for an instant, saw that it was Mrs. Bickford.  He approached her and called her by name.  She gave a little start, as she heard his voice.

“Why, Master Bradford, who would have thought of seeing you here at this time?”

Bradford smiled.  “Whose grave is this that you are taking such pains to clear?”

She pointed to the name with her sickle.

“Yes, I know all that that can tell me.  But who was Elizabeth Purcill?—­what relation was she to me?—­and how came she to die so young, and to be buried here?”

“Why do you think I should know?” she replied.  “People often die young; and no matter where the Purcills die, they all wish to come here at last;—­that one died in Cuba,—­that in France,—­that in Greece,—­and that at sea.”  And she turned her hand towards them, as she spoke.

“But you do not care for their graves; look, how the grass and weeds nod over that tombstone; and you would not clear this, unless you knew something about the girl that lies underneath it.”

“It is an old story,” said she, with a sigh, “and I can tell you but little of it.”  She laid her sickle down on the cut grass and sat down by it.

“Elizabeth Purcill was the daughter of your grandfather’s brother, and therefore your father’s cousin.  Long as I have lived in the family, I never saw him; for he went to India, while a young man, to seek a fortune, which was found too late to benefit either himself or his children.  Elizabeth, his eldest daughter, was sent home for her education, and lived first with one of her kinsfolk, and then another, as her father’s whims or their convenience dictated.  You remember, though so young, when your Aunt Eleanor came to your father’s house on her way to your Uncle Erasmus in his last illness?”

Bradford nodded.

“A little before that time Elizabeth Purcill came to Ashcroft.  She was a pretty, lively girl, and it was pleasant to see in our sober household one who had time to be idle and could laugh.  Your Aunt Eleanor was always a busy woman,—­busier then than she is now,—­and had no time for mirth.  Every servant in the house liked Miss Elizabeth for her sunny smile and her pleasant ways.  Shortly afterwards, Thornton Lee came home.  He had been three years in Africa, and he and your aunt were to be married in the autumn.