“Meta likes to show her independence,” said Rosie, smiling; “we won’t wait for her.”

They climbed the hill, pushed open the gate of the little enclosure and passed in; very quietly, for their youthful spirits were subdued by the solemn stillness of the place, and a feeling of awe crept over them at thought of the dead whose dust lay sleeping there.

Silently they scattered the flowers over each lowly resting place, reserving the most beautiful for that of her who was best known to them all—­the first who had borne the name of Elsie Dinsmore.

“Our dear grandma!” whispered Elsie and Eddie, softly.

“I can’t help feeling as if she was some relation to me too,” said Rosie, “because she was my sister’s mother, and papa’s wife.”

The breeze carried the words to the ear of Uncle Joe, who was at work on the farther side of the enclosure, and had not till that moment been aware of the vicinity of the young people.

He rose and came hobbling toward them, pulling off his hat and bowing respectfully.

“Dat’s so, Miss Rosie, ef you lubs de Lord, like she did, de dear young Missus dat lays heyah; for don’t de ’postle say ob de Lord’s chillen dat dey’s all one in Christ Jesus? all one, Miss Rosie:  heirs ob God and joint heirs wid Christ.”

“Yes, Uncle Joe, that is true.”

“Ah, she was lubly an’ lubbed de Master well,” he went on, leaning upon his staff and gazing fixedly at the name engraved on the stone, “She’s not dead, chillen:  her soul’s wid de Lord in dat land ob light an’ glory, an’ de body planted heyah till de mornin’ ob de resurrection.”

“And then she will rise more beautiful than ever,” said little Elsie.  “Mamma has told me about it.  ‘The dead in Christ shall rise first.’”

“Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air:  and so shall we ever be with the Lord,” repeated Rosie.

“Yes, Miss Rosie.  Bressed hope.”  And Uncle Joe hobbled back to his work.

“Here, look at these!” said Meta hurrying up, heated and out of breath with running, “Aren’t they beauties?”

She emptied her apron upon the grave as she spoke, then pulled out her handkerchief with a jerk, to wipe the perspiration from her face Something fell against the tombstone with a ringing, metallic sound.

“A key! a door key!” cried Herbert, stooping to pick it up.  “Why, Meta, what key is it? and what are you doing with it?”

“I never heard that it had any particular name,” she answered tartly, snatching it from him and restoring it to her pocket, while her cheeks flushed crimson.

The others exchanged surprised glances, but said nothing.

“But what door does it belong to? and what are you doing with it?” persisted Herbert.

“Talk of the curiosity of women and girls!” sneered Meta:  “men and boys have quite as much; but it’s against my principles to gratify it.”