It Was His Sister's, He Said, And When I Asked Him How Long She Had Been Dead, He Answered, "Twenty Years." She Had Died More Than Ten Years Before He Was Born.

He said there had been eight of them born, and he was the youngest of the lot; his eldest brother was married and had children five or six years old.

Only one of the eight had died - this sister, when she was a little girl. Her name was Mary, and one day every week his mother sent him to trim the mound. He did not remember when it began - he must have been very small. He had to trim the grass, and in summer to water it so as to keep it always smooth and fresh and green.

Before he had finished his story the other little fellow, who was not interested in it and was getting tired again, began in a low voice to mock at his companion, repeating his words after him. Then my little fellow, with a very serious, resolute air, put the scissors down, and in a moment they were both up and away, doubling this way and that, bounding over the mounds, like two young dogs at play, until, rolling over together, they fought again in the grass. There I left them and strolled away, thinking of the mother busy and cheerful in her cottage over there in the village, but always with that image of the little girl, dead these twenty years, in her heart.

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