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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Audrey
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
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Title: Audrey
or, Children of light

Author: Mrs. O. F. Walton

Release date: March 22, 2024 [eBook #73229]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1897

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUDREY ***

 Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is
as printed.

SHE STOOD GAZING THROUGH THE SMALL WINDOW.

 AUDREY
OR

Children of Light

By

MRS. O. F. WALTON

AUTHOR OF

"CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN," "LITTLE DOT," "OLIVE'S STORY,"

"SAVED AT SEA," "A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES," ETC.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard, E.C.

STORIES
 BY

MRS. O. F. WALTON.

Christie's Old Organ.

A Peep Behind the Scenes.

Winter's Folly.

Olive's Story.

The Wonderful Door; or, Nemo.

My Little Corner.

My Mates and I.

Audrey; or, Children of Light.

Christie, the King's Servant.

Little Faith.

Nobody Loves Me.

Poppy's Presents.

Saved at Sea.

Taken or Left.

The Mysterious House.

Angel's Christmas.
Little Dot.

Doctor Forester.

The Lost Clue.

Scenes in the Life of an Old Arm-Chair.

Was I Right.

The Religious Tract Society

4, Bouverie Street, & 65, St. Paul's Churchyard

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE OLD HOUSE

CHAPTER II. A CURIOUS PLAYGROUND

CHAPTER III. A PAIR OF ROBINS

CHAPTER IV. FORGOTTEN GRAVES

CHAPTER V. THE COLLECTION

CHAPTER VI. ANGELS' VISITS

CHAPTER VII. THE MYSTERIOUS LIGHT

 CHAPTER VIII. CHILDREN OF LIGHT

CHAPTER IX. UNDER THE YEW TREE

CHAPTER X. OLD JOE

CHAPTER XI. THE HOT SUMMER

CHAPTER XII. WHITE ROBES

Audrey
OR

CHILDREN OF LIGHT

CHAPTER I
The Old House

"NOW, Audrey!"

"Yes, Aunt Cordelia?"

"That's the third clean pinafore that you've had this

week," said Aunt Cordelia severely, "and it's only Thursday.
Now, Audrey!"
 And when Aunt Cordelia said, "Now, Audrey!" The little
girl who was addressed knew that something was seriously
amiss.

She was a pretty little girl, with fair hair and brown
eyes, and the warm summer sun had tanned her as brown
as the nuts in the window of Aunt Cordelia's shop. She
stood in the corner of the little back parlour looking ruefully
at her pinafore, which was almost as black as if she had
sent it up the chimney for five minutes' change of air.

"Now, Audrey!" repeated Aunt Cordelia more solemnly

than before.

The poor child could not bear up against this last

terrible appeal, and bursting into tears, she sobbed—

"I wish there weren't such things as pinafores; I do wish

there weren't!"

"No such things as pinafores?" said Aunt Cordelia. "Why,

what would become of careless little girls' frocks, if there
were no nice pinafores to cover them, I should like to
know?"

"I hate pinafores," sobbed the child, taking no notice of

her aunt's words; "I wish the Queen would say nobody was
ever to wear them again!"

"For shame, Audrey," said Aunt Cordelia, "you should

never say you hate anything; it's very wicked indeed! Least
of all you should never hate pinafores, that keep you nice
and clean and tidy."

"But that's just what they don't do," said Audrey. "They
will get black and grimy. I can't ever have a bit of fun
because of them."
 Then, as she dried her tears, a bright thought struck
her, and she said, "Couldn't I have a black pinafore, Aunt
Cordelia, and then it wouldn't show the dirt, would it now?"

"Well," said her aunt, laughing in spite of herself, "it will

come to that one of these days, I expect. Now go and get a
clean pinafore at once; and remember that's four this
week," she called after her, as the little girl ran upstairs.

It was a quaint old house in which Audrey and her aunt,

Miss Palmer, lived. Miss Palmer loved to boast about it to
the customers who came to the shop. It was three hundred
years old, she told them, and the wainscot was real oak,
and the bannisters on the stairs were carved, and there
were curious old cupboards with black oak doors, and there
was a chimney so wide that none of the sweep's brushes
were large enough to sweep it.

But though Miss Palmer was very proud of her old

house, which had been in the family for so many years that
the family had quite lost count of their number, yet it
caused her a great deal of worry and anxiety. There never
was such a place for dust as that old house; it collected in
every corner, it lay upon the window-sills, and it settled
upon the bright dish-covers and pewter jugs in the kitchen.

With this dust Miss Palmer was always waging war.

From morning till night—week in and week out—she fought
perseveringly with the ever-gathering dust, and tried to
make her house as prim and as neat as her tidy soul longed
to see it. But just as Audrey's pinafores would get black, so
the old house would get dusty, and the two together
brought many a line of care into Miss Palmer's forehead.

Audrey had lived with her aunt since she was a fortnight
old. Her father was a baker in a town two hundred miles
away. She had never seen him, and he had never seen her
since her aunt had carried her off, a tiny, sickly baby, nearly
eight years ago. Audrey's mother had died soon after she
was born, and her father had sent a piteous letter to his
sister Cordelia, telling her he did not know what would
become of him and of his nine motherless children, now
Alice was gone.

On receipt of that letter, Miss Palmer had at once put up

her shop-shutters, packed a small carpetbag, locked up her
old house, and had set off for the town, two hundred miles
away, where her brother lived. She had only remained one
night, for her business could not be neglected; but she had
brought the baby back with her, having adopted it as her
own.

A curious little thing Audrey looked, as Miss Palmer

rolled her in a warm shawl before starting on her homeward
journey, for even then she had a quantity of hair, which
made her little face look, if possible, smaller and more
fragile. But Miss Palmer, although she was an old maid, had
had some experience with babies, having at one time been
nurse in a respectable family. So the little one had every
care and attention bestowed upon her, and had grown up a
healthy, hearty child, always untidy, and never clean for half
an hour together, but yet with cheeks like roses, and as
plump and strong as even Miss Palmer's heart could wish.

She was very fond of the little girl, although she did not
often show it. And though she sometimes rebuked her and
said, "Now, Audrey!" in a voice which made her tremble,
she was not unkind to her, and did not mean to be harsh.

"It was all for Audrey's good," she said to herself.

 Thus Audrey, in spite of her pinafores, did not lead at all
an unhappy life. She went to a private school in the next
street, where an old woman tried to keep order amongst
thirty or forty children, and, at such times as she succeeded
in making her voice heard, to teach them reading, writing,
and a few sums.

Audrey was a quick child, and learnt well all that it was
possible to learn in such a place. She could read easily and
distinctly, and would have been praised for her writing, had
she not covered both herself and her copybook with blots.
But the sums were her delight, and she was fast coming to
the end of all the arithmetic which Miss Tapper was able to
impart.

But there was one thing which Audrey had never been
taught, either at school or at home, and that was the power
of the love of Jesus. Her aunt made her say a prayer night
and morning, but she never talked to her of the dear Lord
who died instead of her, and who longed for her to be His
loving and obedient child. If Audrey was good she was
praised, if she was naughty she was blamed; but no one
taught her who alone could make her good, or could teach
her not to be naughty.

She was like a little ship beaten about by the waves,

driven first one way and then another by the storm of
temper on the wind of wilfulness. She had not yet learnt
whose hand must be on the helm if she was to sail onward,
and to reach the harbour in safety.

When Audrey appeared downstairs in her clean

pinafore, she stood at the shop-door watching her aunt,
who was weighing out a pound of tea for a customer—a
stout, rosy woman with a basket on her arm.
 "Aunt Cordelia," began the child; but the customer's
tongue was going so fast that her aunt did not hear her.

"Aunt Cordelia," said the child again, as the woman,

having finished her long story, took up her parcels, put
them in her basket, and departed.

"Well, Audrey?"

"May I go out and play, Aunt Cordelia?"

"Go out and play? No, indeed!" said her aunt

indignantly. "Go out and dirty another clean pinafore? Not if
I know it! Take your doll and play with it in the window-
seat, and keep yourself clean for five minutes, if you can do
such a thing."

Audrey obeyed without a word, for she had been taught

to do as she was told. She went into the parlour and took
up her poor old wooden doll Olivia, who had lost all the
colour from her cheeks and all the hair from her head.
Audrey did not play with her; she stood with her in her
arms gazing through the small square diamond-paned
window into her playground outside.

CHAPTER II
A Curious Playground
 AUDREY stood a long time looking out of that window. It
opened like a door, and the ground outside was only two
feet below it. Audrey could get into her playground in a
moment by jumping through the window; and oh, how she
longed to be there!

It was a strange place in which to play, for it was a very

old and long-disused churchyard. A great tombstone stood
close to the window, and shut out much of Audrey's view. A
green, moss-grown, dirty old tombstone it looked; but it
was only like all the other stones in that melancholy and
deserted place.

They had all been put up to the memory of people long

since dead—long since forgotten. No loving hands ever
brought flowers or wreaths to lay on those old graves, for
the ones who loved them and cared for them had
themselves been long since numbered with the dead, and
were lying in their own quiet resting-places.

Behind the old stones, so black with the smoke of years,

so discoloured and weather-stained by the dews of many a
summer and the rains of many a winter, Audrey could see
the ancient church, which was fully as dismal and deserted
as were the graves amongst which it stood. It had been
built eight hundred years ago, and at one time large and
fashionable congregations had no doubt attended it. Now
they had all passed away, and with them had departed the
usefulness of the old church. It was shut up and neglected,
and was left to the spiders and other creeping things, which
had made a happy home there.

That old churchyard was the happiest place in the world

to Audrey; she had loved it ever since she was a little child.
She knew every corner of it; she felt as if it belonged to her,
and as if no one else had a right to be there—no one except
little Stephen.

She shared everything with him, and she loved him as if

he were her brother. There he was now under the lilac tree,
sitting patiently waiting for her to come; and Aunt Cordelia
would not let her go out to him. How disappointed Stephen
would be! A tear trickled down Audrey's cheek at the
thought, and fell on the top of poor Miss Olivia's head.

"What—Audrey crying!" said her aunt, coming briskly

into the room. "What is it all about?"

Audrey wiped the tear off Miss Olivia's hair, and made
no answer.

"What?" said her aunt. "Because I said you were not to

go out? Now, Audrey!"

"Aunt, it isn't that—it isn't that," sobbed Audrey. "It's

because Stephen will be disappointed, and it's his birthday.
He is five years old to-day, is Stephen."

"Oh, it's his birthday, is it?" said her aunt, relenting.

"Well, I did not know that. I suppose I must let you go; but
mind your pinafore—that's all!"

"Thank you, aunty!" said Audrey, her face filling with

sunshine in a moment, as she climbed on a chair, crept
through the small square casement, and jumped to the
ground outside.

The little boy gave a cry of joy as he saw her, and came
slowly forward to meet her. He could not come quickly, for
Stephen was a crippled child, and had never known what it
was to run or to jump like other children.
 When he was a baby, he was so small that he was quite
a curiosity; and the neighbours declared that such a child
had never been seen before. But his father had nursed him
and watched him as a gardener tends and watches a little
sickly plant of which he is very fond. And Stephen had
learnt to walk when he was three years old, and could now
creep about the churchyard and play quietly with Audrey
amongst the old graves. He was his father's only treasure,
for Stephen's mother had died when he was a baby; and he
loved the little lad with all the love of his heart.

Stephen's father was a cobbler, and his window also

opened on the churchyard; and there he sat mending his
shoes, and now and then glancing at the children at their
play. He was never happy when Stephen was out of his
sight, for the child's back was deformed and crooked, and
his legs were weak and unsound, and his father always
feared some evil might befall him.

And this was Stephen's birthday, and he was five years

old.

"Oh, Audrey, I'm glad you've come!" he cried. "I've

waited and waited till school should leave, and it did seem
so long! I've been looking in at the window of the church
and, Audrey, do you know, there's a bird building his nest
inside, just over the pulpit. Come and look!"

The two children went round to the other side of the

church, and climbing on the top of a large flat tombstone
they peered in through the yellow and discoloured panes of
the window. What a strange place it was!

The high, rotten old pulpit looked as if it must soon fall;

the narrow brown pews, with their high backs, and the large
square pews, where the grand people once sat, were all
alike gradually slipping into crooked positions, and leaning
over on the uneven stone floor.

Audrey and Stephen loved to look into that old church;

they peeped in at all times of the day—in the morning,
when the church looked bright and almost cheerful, as the
sunbeams danced on the old pillars and streamed down the
deserted aisles; in the afternoon, when the long shadows
fell across the chancel, and the coloured window at the
western end threw blue and red lights on the font and on
the mouldy pavement below; and again in the evening, just
before going to bed, when the old church was weird and
ghostly, and the stone figures on the tombs in the chancel
looked to the children as if they were alive, and might stand
up and call to them as they watched.

Stephen would tremble at such times and cling fast to

Audrey; but she was never afraid of the old church by night
or by day, and she would have slept as soundly and as
happily in one of the square pews as she did in her own bed
at home.

This afternoon the church looked very bright, and the

sunshine showed the dust and cobwebs which clung to the
roof, as Stephen pointed out the nest he had discovered.

It was a swallow's nest, and presently they saw the

swallows themselves flying in and out of a broken pane in
the east window, and adding finishing touches to their neat
little nest.

"Isn't it lovely?" said Audrey. "We will come every day

to watch them, and we shall see if any little birds come in
the nest."

Then she lifted Stephen down from the stone, and they
wandered together through the churchyard. What a forlorn
place it was, full of long grass and weeds! All the grave-
stones seemed to have fallen out of place, just as all the
pews had done. Some were leaning one way and some
another.

The names on most of them had long since been worn

away, but others were still quite distinct; and Audrey loved
to spell them out and to calculate how long it was since
those buried in the old graves had died.

In one corner of the churchyard was a swing, which

Stephen's father had put up for them; and just underneath
the wall of the church was a hutch, where Stephen's white
rabbit lived.

It was very, very seldom that any one visited the old
church, except the deaf old woman who had the key of the
gate; and she only came when some stranger, passing
through the old city, happened to discover the whereabouts
of the ancient building, and made it worth her while to
unlock the door.

CHAPTER III
A Pair of Robins

THERE were three houses the windows of which looked

into the old churchyard. Audrey and her aunt lived in one,
Stephen and his father in another, but the third had long
been empty. The windows were covered with dust, and the
spiders and beetles had taken possession of it, just as they
had done of the old church. However, to the children's
astonishment, when they came back from watching the
swallows on Stephen's birthday, they saw that the window
of the empty house had been thrown wide open.

"Who can be inside? Dare you go and look, Audrey?"

"Yes, I'm not afraid," said the child; and leaving

Stephen sitting on a flat tombstone, she went up to the
window and peeped in.

"Who did you see?" said the little boy, when she came
back.

"I saw nobody but a mouse," said Audrey, "a little grey
mouse, sitting in the corner and eating a bit of bread; but
the floor is all washed and clean, and the cobwebs are
gone, and I saw a letter lying on the window-sill."

"Who can be there?" said Stephen. "We must watch and

see."

They had not long to wait, for that very afternoon a

man's face appeared at the window. He was a tall man,
dressed in black, quite a gentleman, Audrey thought him.
He was an old man, for his hair was very white, and he
stooped a little; but he was very active in spite of his age,
and his bright dark eyes seemed to be taking in all he saw
at a glance. He only looked out for a minute, but as Audrey
and Stephen crept nearer, they saw that he was very busy.
He put down a bright-coloured carpet on the floor, and
brought in a large, leather easy-chair and a little round
table, and placed these close to the window, and he hung a
canary in its cage just over the casement. Then he nailed
up white muslin curtains, and Audrey and Stephen thought
the old house looked very pretty, and were glad that some
one had come to live in it.

"Will he live by himself, Stephen, do you think?" said

Audrey.

But before Stephen had time to answer, Aunt Cordelia's

voice was heard calling—

"Now, Audrey, tea-time! What about your pinafore?"

The pinafore was quite clean this time, and Audrey went
in with a light heart; and as a reward for keeping clear of
dirt, she was allowed to play with Stephen again after tea.
She was eager to get out, that she might catch another
glimpse of her old man, as she called him; but she found
the shutters closed, and she and Stephen could only watch
the flickering of the bright light inside.

"He's got a fire," said Stephen; "look at the smoke

coming up out of the chimney."

"And he's got a lamp, too," said Audrey. "Look, you can
see it through the crack in this shutter."
 "THERE'S SOME ONE SITTING IN THE WINDOW!" HE SAID.

"Listen—" said Stephen. "What is he doing?"

The sound of hammering came again and again from

the room, the window of which looked into the churchyard.

"He's putting up his pictures," said Audrey. "How pretty

it will look in the morning!"

There was, however, no time for her to peep at it before

school; but when she came home at twelve o'clock, she
found Stephen full of excitement.

"There's some one sitting in the window, and I can't

make out who it is," he said. "I can see something white,
and it moves, but it isn't the old man's head; it's too white
for that."

"Why don't you go and look?" said Audrey.

 "I daren't," said Stephen; "I waited for you, Audrey."

The little girl went on tip-toe and peeped in.

"It's an old woman, Stephen," she reported, when she

came back to him. "Such a pretty old woman, and she is
sitting in that arm-chair, knitting, and she is smiling to
herself as she knits. I wonder what she is thinking about
that makes her smile. Come and look, Stephie."

Very, very quietly the two children crept to the window

and peeped in.

"Is any one there?" said a pleasant voice.

But the children were so startled when she spoke, that

they ran away and hid behind the bushes, and it was some
time before they dared to venture again near the window.

"Is any one there?" said the kindly voice of the old
woman. "I am sure I hear some little feet outside."

"Yes, ma'am," said Audrey; "it's me and Stephen."

"You and Stephen, is it?" said the old woman. "And

what are you and Stephen like?"

Instead of answering, the two children put their heads

in at the window.

How pretty it was inside that room! The walls were

covered with pictures and photographs and coloured texts,
a fire was burning in the grate, and in front of it lay a
tortoiseshell cat fast asleep; the chimney-piece was
adorned with stuffed birds and vases filled with grass, and
on the round table was a large bunch of wallflowers, which
filled the whole room with sweetness.
 "Now then, what are you and Stephen like?" said the
old woman, smiling again.

"Can't you see us, ma'am?" said Audrey.

"No, I can't see you," said the old woman quietly; "I'm
blind."

"Oh dear, what a pity!" said little Stephen.

"No, not a pity," said the old woman, "not a pity,

because the good Lord sees best; we must never say it's a
pity."

"Can't you see anything?" said Audrey.

"Not a glimmer," said the old woman, "it is all dark now;
but I can feel the warm sunshine, thank God, and I can
smell these sweet flowers, and I can hear your bonny
voices."

"I'm so sorry for you," said little Stephen, "so very, very
sorry!"

"God bless you, my dear child!" said the old woman,

and a tear rolled down her cheek and fell upon her knitting.
"And now tell me who you are, and what you are like."

"I'm Audrey, please, ma'am," said the little girl, "and

he's Stephen, and he's as good as my brother, only he isn't
my brother—are you, Stephie? And he's got shaky legs, and
he can't walk far; but he plays with me among the graves—
don't you, Stephie?"

"And now, Stephen, what is Audrey like?" asked the old

woman.
 "She's got yellow hair," said little Stephen, "and she's
nice!" And then he turned shy, and would say no more.

"Now," said the old woman, "you must often come and
talk to me as I sit in my window, and you must tell me all
you are doing. I know what to call you, but you must know
what to call me. My name is Mrs. Robin, and you shall call
me Granny Robin. I have some little grandchildren, but they
live over the sea in America, so you must take their place."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Audrey. "Thank you, Granny

Robin, I mean," she added, laughing.

That was the beginning of a great friendship between

the two children and the new-comers. Mr. Robin had been a
schoolmaster, and for many years had worked hard and
lived carefully, so that in his old age he had saved enough
to retire, and to take the old house, and make a
comfortable home in it for himself and for his wife.

The rent was low, for few liked to take a house the
windows of which looked out upon graves, but the
schoolmaster made no objection to the churchyard. There
were green trees in it, which would remind him of the pretty
village where he had lived so long, and he did not mind the
graves: he would soon be lying in one himself, and it was
well to be reminded of it, he said. And as for his wife, she
could not see the graves, but she could hear the twittering
of the swallows that built under the eaves of the deserted
church, and she could smell the lilac on the bush close to
her window, and it would be a quiet and pleasant home for
her until the Lord called her.

The only fear that the schoolmaster had had in choosing

his new home had been lest his wife would miss the
company to which she had been accustomed in the village
where they were so well known. She had a large and loving
heart, and there were very few in the village who did not
come to her for sympathy both in joy and in sorrow. She
knew the history of every one, and, one by one, they
dropped in to tell her all that was going on in the village—
countless little events which would have been of small
interest to others, but which were of great interest to Mrs.
Robin.

She sat at her knitting when the neighbours had gone,

thinking over what she had heard, and carrying the sorrows
of others, as she ever carried her own, to the throne of
grace.

But Mr. Robin need not have feared for his wife. She
had a happy, contented spirit. It is true she had felt sad at
leaving her happy country home, but new interests were
already springing up in the one to which she felt the Lord
had brought her. Little Stephen with his shaky legs, and
Audrey with her motherly care over him, had already won
Granny Robin's heart, and the children from that time spent
a very large part of their playtime in talking to their new
friend, as she sat at her window knitting.

CHAPTER IV
Forgotten Graves

ONE day, as the children stood by Granny Robin's side,

they talked about the old graves in the churchyard. It was a
bright spring evening, and the golden sunshine was
streaming through the branches of the ragged, untidy trees,
which nearly hid the old church from sight. Granny Robin
could not see the sunshine, but Stephen could see it, and
he told her about it, and said he was sure the swallows liked
it as much as he did, for they were flying round and round
in long circles, twittering as they flew.

It had become quite a regular thing for Stephen to tell

the old woman all he saw, and he loved to hear her say that
she was now no longer blind, for she had found a pair of
new eyes.

One day she called him her "little Hobab," and when he
laughed and asked her why she gave him such a funny
name, she said it was because, long, long ago, when Moses
was travelling through the wilderness with the children of
Israel, he said to his brother-in-law, Hobab:

"Thou mayest be to us instead of eyes." And she said

that God had sent little Stephen to her, in her old age, that
he might be instead of eyes to her.

"I am so sorry for those poor graves," said Stephen on

that spring evening, when he had been telling Granny Robin
about the sunlight and the swallows.

"Why are you sorry for them?" asked the old woman.

"They look so sad and lonely," said Stephen.

"What are they like?" asked Granny Robin.

"Oh, all green and dirty," said Audrey, "and the trees
are fallen against them, and when the wind blows, their
branches go beat, beat, beat, against the stones, till Aunt
Cordelia says she can't bear to hear them when she's in bed
at night."

"Does nobody bring flowers to put on them?" asked the

old woman.

"No, never," said little Stephen.

"Nor wreaths?"

"Oh no, never."

"Does no one ever come to look at them?"

"No, never once, Granny Robin," said Audrey.

"And they do look so sad," said Stephen.

"Yes," said the little girl, "I went with Aunt Cordelia to
the cemetery one day, and it's lovely there, just like a
garden; the flowers are beautiful, and there were heaps of
people watering graves, and raking them and pulling off the
dead flowers, and some of them were crying."

"But no one cries over these graves," said Granny

Robin.

"No, not one person," said Stephen. "My father says all
the people that loved them are dead and buried
themselves."

"Poor forgotten graves!" said the old woman. "And my

grave will be like one of them in fifty years' time—a
forgotten grave."

She was talking to herself more than to the children,

but little Stephen answered her.
 "Will no one remember it, Granny Robin?"

"Yes, some one will," she said brightly; "my Lord will
never forget. He will know where it is, and whose body lies
inside, and it will be safe in His care till the great
Resurrection Day."

"Will the angels know too?" said Stephen.

"I think they will," she said.

"Do they know who are buried in these poor old

graves?" asked the child.

"Yes, I believe they do," said the old woman.

"In every one?"

"Yes, in every one."

"Even when the names are worn off?" asked the little
boy.

"Yes, I believe they do," said Granny Robin softly.

"I'm so glad," said Stephen. "Then maybe the angels do

come and look at them sometimes. I expect they come at
night, when Audrey and me are in bed. I'll get out and look
some night, Granny Robin; maybe I shall see them; my
window looks out this way."

The forgotten graves weighed heavily on Stephen's

mind after this talk with the old woman. When Audrey was
at school, he used to wander up and down amongst them,
pitying them with all the pity of his loving little heart. And
he would try to put aside some of the branches that kept
blowing against the stones, and which were so fast wearing
them away, and he would pull up some of the long grass,
which in some places hid the stones completely from sight.

"Audrey—" he said one afternoon when Aunt Cordelia

had given her leave to have a long play with him, "Audrey,
couldn't we make these poor old graves look nice?"

"We couldn't do them all," said Audrey. "Why, Stephen,

there must be a hundred or more!"

"No, we couldn't do them all; we might begin with two—

one for you and one for me, Audrey."

"Well, let's choose," said the little girl. "We'll walk round
and have a look at them all."

"We'll have one with some reading on," said Stephen,

"and then we shall know what to call it."

"Here's a poor old stone against the wall," said Audrey;

"I'll read you what it says."

"'SACRED
TO THE MEMORY OF
CHARLES HOLDEN,
WHOSE REMAINS LIE
HERE INTERRED.
HE WAS
OF HUMANE DISPOSITION,
A SOCIAL COMPANION,
A FAITHFUL SERVANT,
AND A SINCERE FRIEND.
HE DEPARTED THIS LIFE
THE 23RD OF DECEMBER, 1781.