CHAPTER XXIII.
THREE YEARS AFTER.
One scene more.
It was the morning of a summer's day. The sunshine danced bewitchingly over the sea, that lay drowsily under the wide vault of a blue sky. Lambent, languid, white, earth and air slept together.
A soothing and dreamy haze rested on the little town of Peel.
Brighter than the sunshine, fresher than the salt breath of the sea, a little girl of eight tripped over the paved and crabbed streets. In one hand she swung a straw-hat overflowing with flowers. By the other she held a fair-haired boy, who was just old enough to trot along at her side. The stout little man carried a mighty spade across one shoulder, and the hand that held the hand of his sister held also a bucket heavily laden with perhaps a teaspoon full of sand. At one moment the maiden, exercising the grave duties of a guardian, stopped, and volunteered to relieve the little chap of this burden; but, of course, he resented the humiliating tender with proper masculine dignity. Then they tripped on.
They were making for the Market-place, and when they reached it they turned in at the church gates. Many a green grave lay there bathed in the sunbeams; and many a simple stone, moss-grown and discolored, looked brighter on this brilliant day. An old man sat on a tomb and leaned forward on a stick. He seemed to doze in the light and warmth; but as the little people passed him, he fumbled at his hat and smiled through his teethless gums.
"'At's Billy," said the little fellow, with an air of knowledge.
The children walked to the south–west angle of the church, and stopped before a white marble slab embedded in the wall. There was no grave beneath it. Tossed on the shimmering waters that stretched away miles on miles in front of it, or resting calmly in that ocean bed, was all that remained of him to whom this stone was raised.
The little maiden cast her flowers in front of it. The little boy, too, must needs cast his flowers also. Then he looked up with his great wondering eyes at the letters of the inscription. They ran:
TO DEAR DANNY IN HEAVEN.
The tide was just on the turn, and the murmur of the first receding
waves began to break the silence.
"Listen," said the little woman, with lifted finger.
"I 'ikes the sea," said the boy.
The children turned to go. "Come, Danny," said she.
"Ees, Ruby," he lisped.
When they reached the gate the little feet tripped faster over the stones, and a silvery voice sang:
"Sweet violets and primroses the sweetest."
THE END.