She conjectured that the bodies had probably been disinterred by friends and removed to Georgia; and she hurried on toward the hillside, where the neighborhood graveyard was situated.  The rude, unpainted paling still enclosed it, and rows of headboards stretched away among grass and weeds; but whose was that shining marble shaft, standing in the centre of a neatly arranged square, around which ran a handsome iron railing?  On that very spot, in years gone by, had stood a piece of pine board:  “Sacred to the memory of Aaron Hunt, an honest blacksmith and true Christian.”

Who had dared to disturb his bones, to violate his last resting-place, and to steal his grave for the interment of some wealthy stranger?  A cry of horror and astonishment broke from the orphan’s trembling lips, and she shaded her eyes with her hand, and tried to read the name inscribed on the monument of the sacrilegious interloper.  But bitter, scalding tears of indignation blinded her.  She dashed them away, but they gathered and fell faster; and, unbolting the gate, she entered the enclosure and stepped close to the marble.

Erected
in honor of
Aaron hunt: 
By his devoted granddaughter.

These gilded words were traced on the polished surface of the pure white obelisk, and on each corner of the square pedestal or base stood beautifully carved vases, from which drooped glossy tendrils of ivy.

As Edna looked in amazement at the glittering shaft, which rose twenty feet in the autumn air; as she rubbed her eyes and re-read the golden inscription, and looked at the sanded walks, and the well-trimmed evergreens, which told that careful hands kept the lot in order, she sank down at the base of the beautiful monument, and laid her hot cheek on the cold marble.

“Oh, Grandpa, Grandpa!  He is not altogether wicked and callous as we once thought him, or he could never have done this!  Forgive your poor little Pearl, if she can not help loving one who, for her sake, honors your dear name and memory!  Oh, Grandpa! if I had never gone away from here.  If I could have died before I saw him again! before this great pain fell upon my heart!”

She knew now where St. Elmo Murray went that night, after he had watched her from behind the sarcophagus and the mummies; knew that only his hand could have erected this noble pillar of record; and most fully did she appreciate the delicate feeling which made him so proudly reticent on this subject.  He wished no element of gratitude in the love he had endeavored to win, and scorned to take advantage of her devoted affection for her grandfather, by touching her heart with a knowledge of the tribute paid to his memory.  Until this moment she had sternly refused to permit herself to believe all his protestations of love; had tried to think that he merely desired to make her acknowledge his power, and confess an affection