his eyes sought to single out some particular object among the wilderness of roofs.  At first his countenance was sad, but at last the melancholy look changed to an expression of cheerful surprise, for his eye had found what it was seeking among those once familiar objects.  He knew the old house, for memory keeps the record of early days most faithfully, although its appearance was much changed.  The old black roof of oak shingles was now replaced by a new one of slate; and instead of the dull yellow colour which had for many years distinguished it, it was now painted and modernized, to harmonize with the rest.  He did not linger long to conjecture the cause of the change, but with hasty steps prepared to ascertain in person the reason.  As he retraced the path trodden only a moment before, he bestowed rather more attention on the surrounding objects; and as his eye glanced over the graves once so familiar to it, he saw that change had been busy there too.

The slate roof had not less surprised him than what he now saw:  the spot where two lowly graves, adorned only by flowers, had appeared for years without any monumental record, was now adorned with all that can be rendered by the living to the dead.  A very high and handsome iron railing, on which climbing plants were trained, enclosed the little mounds, and a simple white marble pillar bore the names of George and Margaret Raymond.  The flowers planted before William had left M——­ had long ago vanished, and the spot, left to neglect, was overgrown with weeds; but now some kind hand had rescued it from wildness and planted it anew with rare flowers, which were beginning now to bloom in place of those dead.  The sexton’s wife with her watering-pot now came near.  Many graves adorned in a similar way required the care of some one, and she received a regular salary for her attention to the flowers.  The young man waited until she came quite close to where he stood, and then inquired, “Who has had these graves so carefully done up?”

“Who do you think would do so but the son of the good couple that are buried here?” answered the sexton’s wife.  “Little Bill Raymond, that went to New York to be a shoemaker, came back last spring and had this all done.  Folks say he is well to do in the world, and better than all, he is as good a man as his father was.”

A deep blush passing over the young man’s face rendered its sun-burned hue yet deeper, but his eyes lightened with a joyful expression as he inquired with some anxiety, “Is he still in M——?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied the woman; “he is staying with our old baker, Nicholas Herman; there, that is the house with the slate roof.  Old Nicholas was very kind to his mother in her sickness and poverty, and when she died he took the poor child home.  He used always to say if he lived to be a man he would remember him for it; and he has done so.  There was a dreadful fire in the village last year, and old Nicholas Herman’s house was nearly burned down.