was only the funeral of a little child, and the
tiny grave, when the clods were heaped upon it,
was no larger than a molehill in the meadows;
yet your voice faltered, and your hands trembled
as you cast this first small seed into that God's
Acre of ours. The autumn night set in while
we lingered in silence beside the nameless
coffin, long after the mother and her companion
who had brought it to its solitary grave, had
turned away homeward. It was the flapping
of wings close beside us that caused us to lift
up our eyes, and from the fir-trees above us four
rooks flew home across the darkening sky to
their nests in the plain below. You know how
of old the flight of birds would fill me with
vague superstitions, and just then the heavy
fluttering of their dusky wings overhead, as
they beat the air for their start, caused a sudden
tremor and shudder to thrill through me.

"What ails you, Jane?" you asked.

"Nothing ails me, Mr. Scott," I said.

"Call me Owen," you answered, laying your
hand upon my arm, and looking straight into
my eyes, for we were of the same height, and
stood level with one another: "I do not like to
hear you call me anything but Owen. Have
you forgotten how we used to play together?
Do you remember how I fell into the sheep-
pool when we were alone in the valley, and you
wasted no time in fruitless cries, but waded in
at once, and dragged me out of the water?
You would carry me home in your strong arms,
though the path was along the hill-side, and you
had to rest every few minutes; while I looked
up into your rosy face with a very peaceful
feeling. Your face is not rosy now, Jane."

How could it be, while your words brought
such a dull heavy pain to my heart? I seemed
suddenly to be so many, many years older than
you! Sometimes of late I had detected myself
reckoning your age and mine by the month, and
the day of the month, and always finding, with
a pang faint and slight, that you were indeed so
many years younger than I. Yet the heart
takes little heed of age. And I, for the quiet
life I had led among the mountains, just one
regular single round of summer and winter,
coming stealthily and uncounted in their turn
from season to season, might have been little
more than some yearling creature, that has seen
but one spring-time and felt the frosts of but
one Christmas. While you, with your great
acquirements of learning, and the weighty
thoughts that had already wrinkled your broad
forehead, and the burden of study that had
bowed down your young shoulders, seemed to
have borne the full yoke of the years which had
laid so gentle a touch upon me.

"I remember very well, Owen," I said; "I
was proud of having you to take charge of.
But you must go in now; the fog is rising, and
you are not over strong."

I spoke with the old tone of authority, and
you left me, standing alone beside the little
grave. The churchyard extended to the very
edge of the steep hill, which looked far and
wide over the great plain. It was hidden now
by a white lake of mist floating beneath me,
upon which the hunting-moon, rising slowly
behind the eastern hills, shone down with cold
pale beams; for the harvest was over, and the
heavy October fogs gathered in the valleys, and
hung in light clouds about the fading coppices
in the hollows of the mountains. I turned
heart-sick to the little open grave, the first in
the new graveyard, which was waiting until the
sheep were herded for the sexton to fill it up
for ever with the clods; the baby hands and
feet folded there in eternal rest, had never been
stained with selfishness, and the baby lips, sealed
in eternal silence, had uttered never a word of
bitterness. So, I said, looking down sadly into
the narrow tiny grave, so shall it be with my
love; I bury it here while it is yet pure and
unselfish, like a seed sown in God's Acre; and
from it shall spring a plentiful harvest of
happiness for Owen, and of great peace for myself.

It may be that the autumn fog was more
harmful than usual, for I was ill after that
night with my first serious illness; not merely
ailing, but hanging doubtfully between life and
death. I grew to think of our summer months
together as of a time long since passed, and
almost enwrapped in forgetfulness. My mother
laughed when I stroked her grey hair with
my feeble fingers, and told her I felt older
than she was.

"Nay," she said, "we must have you younger
and bonnier than ever, Jane. We must see
what we can do for you before you come down
stairs, and meet Owen. Poor Owen! Who
would have dreamt that he could be more
heart-broken and disconsolate than Jane's own
mother? Poor Owen!"

My mother was smiling significantly, and looking
keenly at me over her glasses, but I said
nothing; only turned away my face from her
scrutiny to the frosted window, where winter had
traced its delicate patterns upon the lattice panes.

"Jane," she went on, clasping my fingers in
hers, "don't you know that we all wish it,
Owen's father, and yours, and me? We thought
of it before he came here. Owen is poor, but
we have enough for both of you, and I love him
like my own son. You need never leave the
old home. Jane, don't you love Owen?"

"But I am older than he is," I whispered.

"A marvellous difference," she said, with
another laugh; "so am I older than father, but
who could tell it was so now? And what does
it matter if Owen loves you?"

I wish to cast no blame on you, but there was
much in your conduct to feed the sweet delusion
which brought fresh health and strength to
me. You called my mother, "Mother." You
sent fond messages by her, which lost nothing
in tone or glance by her delighted repetition of
them. You considered no walk too far to get
flowers for me from the gardens in the plain
below. When I grew well enough to come
down stairs you received me with a rapture of
congratulation. You urged that the blue
parlour, with its southern aspect and closely-fitting
wainscot, was the warmest room in the house,