came upon a splendid granite mausoleum with grated windows, surmounted by a draped urn set on the cupola. Gazing upon it, Ella descried, in heavy letters carved over the portal, the word Poore.
Why, that's ours! she exclaimed.
Yes, Gareth assented.
Father is there. . . . It was built for him . . . and mother now, I believe.
She paused before the tomb.
Dear old father! How strange this is. I've hardly thought about him at all since I've been back here, that is I've hardly thought about him as a real person, but this resurrects him, brings him before me. A tear appeared in the corner of the Countess's eye and rolled down her cheek. She wiped her face with her handkerchief.
It's queer, she went on, what death does to us. I believe it brings us closer to the living.
I don't kndw anything about death, Gareth said. Nobody I've loved has ever died.
The Countess was in a revery. I loved my father, she continued, I loved him very much, but when I married Nattatorrini I went to live in Europe, and somehow I never returned . . . not until now, that is . . . too late. I never saw my father again. He was a kind man, noble in his way, a remarkable man for Iowa of that period, strong . . . and yet I've really never thought of him since I've been here. O, Lou and I have talked about him, of course. His name is mentioned nearly
