“Yes,” said I, sitting down by her side, upon the grass, “we will lay her here among her friends.  And we will place here a white marble monument.”

“I wish,” said Mary Ellen, looking timidly up in my face, “that it could be in memory of David, too.”  She said this with tears in her eyes, and an unsteady voice.

As I sit writing, I can see from my window the simple white monument, which Mary Ellen and I planned together.  The grass and field-flowers are growing all about it, and the birds, Emily’s birds, are singing in the branches above.  It has only this inscription,—­

“In memory of David and Emily.”

“Six children,—­and only one grave to show for all of them!” groaned the poor old mother, when we first led her out to show her the stone.

But there was shortly another grave beneath the maples; for the worn-out old woman soon sank after Emily’s death, and with her last breath begged to be laid by her side.

Only the old man and Miss Joey left.  Still I could not go away.  No other place seemed like home.  And besides, I had found out, long ago, my own secret.  It had been revealed to me, day by day, as I watched Mary Ellen in the sick-room of Emily,—­as I observed her patience, her sweetness, her tenderness!

And my secret came upon me with an overwhelming power.  But I mastered it.  I kept it to myself.  That is, as far as words were concerned.  For the expression of his face, for involuntary glances, no man can be held responsible.

I kept it to myself,—­or tried to do so; for I wasn’t sure—­of anything.  Emily’s words, “I fear,” came to me with deep meaning.  For, if the goodness of David, if the fascinations of Warren Luce had effected nothing, what could I hope?

And was I sure about this last, about Warren?  He was in the place.  Emily’s sickness only had kept him away.  I reviewed myself to myself, overhauled whatever virtues or failings I knew of as belonging to me.

Nothing very satisfactory resulted.  But I remembered what the old man said to Miss Joey, “Love’ll go where ’tis sent,” and took courage.  Eight or ten years older.  I wonder if she would mind that?

Day after day passed, and my secret still burned within me.  It must shine out of my eyes, I thought.  But then, since Emily’s death, I had seen Mary Ellen much less frequently.  She kept mostly with her mother, on their own side of the house.

But the time that was foreordained from the beginning of the world for the bursting-forth of my secret came at last.

It was a month after Emily’s death.  I happened to come home in the evening unusually early.  ’Twas exactly such a night as the one on which I tried to sound the depths of a young girl’s heart, and failed.  If she would only come out in the moonlight again, and let me try once more!

As I passed the orchard, my heart gave a great leap, for she was there,—­she and Miss Joey, carrying in a great basket of apples.  I seized her side of the basket with one hand, and with the other grasped hers so earnestly that she fairly started:  I was so glad to see her!