"Be careful, Christine, where you step; your foot is on a grave!"
With a start and a sudden pallor, Christine looked down upon the
fragment of a gravestone. Stooping and putting aside the long grass
and weeds, she read: "The only child of his mother, and she a widow."
"Whose grave could this have been, mother? The upper part of the
stone, which should bear the name, is gone. Oh, how sad this ruined
cot, and this lonely grave! I suppose, mother, here, in the heart of
the forest, in this small cottage, lived the widow and her only child.
The child died, as we may see, and she--oh! was the boon of death
granted to her at the same moment? But, who were they, mother? As your
early life was passed in this part of the country, you surely can tell
us."
Aunt Clive, who had been gazing sadly and silently on the scene since
giving the warning to Christine, said:
"Yes, I can tell you the story. But here comes your father, looking
very tired and hungry; and, as it is a very sad tale, we will defer it
until we have dined."
We spread our repast upon the grass, and, seating ourselves upon the
fragments of the broken chimney, soon became engrossed in the
discussion of cold chicken, ham and bread.
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