“A peaceful spot of earth,” I thought, as I went into the hedged inclosure, and shut myself in with the gleaming marble, and the low-hanging evergreens that waved their green arms to ward ill away from those they had grown up among.  “It is long since the ground has been broken here,” I thought,—­“so long!” And I looked upon a monumental stone to find there recorded the latest date of death.  It was eighteen hundred and forty-four,—­my mother’s,—­and I looked about and sought her grave.  The grass seemed crispy and dry.  I sat down by this grave.  I leaned over it, and looked into the tangled net-work of dead fibres held fast by some link of the past to living roots underneath.  I plucked some of them, and in idlest of fancies looked closely to see if deeds or thoughts of a summer gone had been left upon them.  “No!  I’ve had enough of fancies for one day; I’ll have no more to-night,” I thought; and I wished for something to do.  I longed for action whereon to imprint my new impress of resolution.  It came in a guise I had not calculated upon.

“It’s very wrong of you to sit upon that damp ground, Miss Percival.”

The words evidently were addressed to me, sitting hidden in among the evergreens.  I looked up and answered,—­

“It is not damp, Mr. Axtell.”

He was leaning upon the iron railing outside of the hedge.

“Will you come away from that cold, damp place?” he went on.

“I’m not ready to leave yet,” I said, and never moved.  I asked,—­

“How is your sister since morning?”

I thought him offended.  He made no reply,—­only walked away and went into the church close by.

“One can never know the next mood that one of these Axtells will take,” I said to myself, in the stillness that followed his going.  “He might have answered me, at least.”  Then I reproached Anna Percival for cherishing uncharity towards tried humanity.  There’s a way appointed for escape, I know, and I sought it, burying my face in my hands, and leaning over the stillness of my mother’s heart.  I heard steps drawing near.  Looking up, I saw Mr. Axtell entering the inclosure.  He had brought one of the church pew-cushions.

“Will you rise?” he asked.

He did not bring the cushion to where I was; he carried it around and spread it in a vacant spot between two graves, the place left beside my mother for my precious father’s white hairs to be laid in.  Having deposited it there, he looked at me, evidently expecting that I would avail myself of his kindness.  I wanted to refuse.  I felt perfectly comfortable where I was.  I should have done so, had not my intention been intercepted by a shaft of expression that crossed my vein of humor unexpectedly.  It was only a look from out of his eyes.  They were absolutely colorless,—­not white, not black, but a strange mingling of all hues made them everything to my view,—­and yet so full of coloring that no one ray came shining out and said, “I’m blue, or black, or gray;” but something said, if not the mandate of color, “Obey!”