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The sun was about to set on one of those fine evenings
in the latter fall, those evenings which seem to blend together
whatsoever is bright and youthful in the spring,
all that is luxuriant in the mature and rich beauty of the
flower-crowned summer, all that is thoughtful and full
of melancholy attraction in the full golden-handed autumn.

The rich crimson light was rolled like a royal banner,
stained with blood, down the rough side of the Sleepy
Creek Mountain; and so across the little valley to the
eastern pines, where it melted away into the fast gathering
gloom.

The Moss Rock stood out against the sky like a giant's
shoulder, and the tall pines growing at its feet, just
fringed the outline of the lofty rock with flame—for they
were kindled now by the red fires of sunset. Near the
foot of the great rock on whose summit a gnarled fir tree
still shook to the storms, or spread its rugged arms on
summer days for little singing birds—on a round grassy
knoll just under the shadow of the mass of rock, a newly
made grave, with its white headstone, was settling into
gloom.

On this stone a young girl, standing erect, was resting
her arm, while her long hair falling down vailed her face,
and hid the expression wholly. She had just planted some
autumn flowers in the sod, and now she gazed at the round
grassy knoll which defined the lofty form which rested
below, with heaving bosom. Alice raised her head, and
pushed back her hair from her face; her eyes were full

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of tears, and she was mastered by one of those fits of
sobbing, whose influence is so irresistible.

That tender heart was overcome by the sight of the
grave of her dear grandfather—thus stumbled on in her
walk—and she felt again all the bitter grief she had experienced
on the day of his death. Again she saw the
old forehead so thin and blanched; the feebly smiling
lips; the tender eyes;—again she heard those loving and
much-loved accents of the honest voice. Her head again
sank down, vailed by the long sweeping hair, and she
gave herself up to grief, weeping and sobbing bitterly.

A hand was laid upon her shoulder; and turning round
she saw Doctor Courtlandt gazing tenderly upon her. So
great had been her abstraction that she had not been conscious
of his approach.

The Doctor took her hand and said in his soft noble
voice, full of tenderness and sympathy:

“You seem much afflicted, my child—I do not think
you heard my horse's hoof-strokes.”

Alice bent down her head murmuring:

“Oh, he was so good—he loved me so—I can't help
crying, uncle—he loved me so!”

This broken, sobbing answer went to the strong man's
heart.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “I know you loved him, my child;
I know it well, and you had reason. His was a true
brave soul—a heart which fought manfully the life battle
he was summoned to upon this earth; and when the bolt
from heaven struck him down, he went to death in hope
not fear—calmly and tranquilly. 'Tis fit you should love
him, Alice.”

“He loved me so,” repeated the tender heart, sobbing
and weeping, and bending over the stone, “and I loved
him so dearly, uncle!”

“All loved him,” said the Doctor, smoothing the little
head which nestled against his shoulder gently and

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tenderly, “and I do not blame you, darling, for lamenting
him; no, no! 'twas a true brave soul—an honest heart
which dwelt here with us for a time—which is now gone
hence, we trust, to joy and glory!”

Alice replied with a deep sob: from her eyes, vailed
with their long lashes, tears rolled down, and her lips
were tremulous with agitation. The doctor soothed her
gently; thoughtfully caressing the little head.

“This man who lies here now a mere clod, a memory,
was dear to us,” he said, his eyes wandering, it seemed, to
other times, “most dear to many as a link of pure virgin
gold which bound the present to the past. History will
have no word to say of him; a mere borderer, he can not
hope to live in the long drawn annals of the land, in
battles, sieges, world-losing combats! No, this is not for
him, 'tis true—no cloth of gold blazoned his deeds to
men's wondering eyes; no shouts of the loud populace,
clinging to his chariot wheels, rung to the sky in praise
of his bold deeds. But a few years! and he will be a
myth, a dream, a mere figure more or less misty of the
doubtful past.”

Those noble eyes grew dim and thoughtful; the
words escaping from the lips of the speaker, were mere
broken links of the chain of meditation.

“Yet he shall live in many a border tale,” the Doctor
murmured, “in many a chronicle of the old border past;
he fought her battles, was a large part of the stirring life
and deeds of those rugged times; he did his part like
others—and his memory shall not wholly die into oblivion.”

The Doctor's thoughtful brow was raised again; the
young girl gazed silently on the grave.

“I have planted a flower there, uncle,” she said, “it
will soon bloom.”

The Doctor, with a look of great affection, took the little
hand, and gazing on the agitated face, bent down and
pressed his lips to the disordered locks.

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“I had forgotten, poor rude reasoner that I am,” he
said, “I had forgotten what was more than all—ah, far
more consoling than these mournful consolations I have
called up now. The soul which rests so calmly here
cares nothing for the loud voice of history, for any cunning
of the supple herald's art; what is it to him now
whether he lives or dies in the mere annals of the land!
He lives in loving hearts—he lies in peace after a long,
rough life with many mourners: among them he would
rejoice to find his child—you, darling. Your prayers
and tears still follow him—your blessings sanctify his
memory; could the cold spirit feel any thing, I know
these tears would move him. He lives in most loving
memories: grand consolation—may I have it on my dying
bed!

“Many would say the wish is idle, but I should love
to think my own grave was decked with flowers. The
human soul clings to its habitudes of thought, whatever
cold reason says; the hopes, the wishes, the aspirations
of the soul run ever in the old well worn channels. I
think that I should lie in peace if children came without
fear to my grave, and flowers grew round it, perfuming
the pure air, and symbolizing the grand beautiful heaven
above! Is the wish vain and childish? Well, God has bid
us grow like little children in our thoughts, and so I will
not be ashamed of my instinct. Come, darling; the sun
has set, and you should return. It is not fit that you
should indulge so much your grief—though this was an
eminent soul you weep for. He was, I am sure, prepared
to die, and lived a long happy life—happy in many true
hearts, all his own—happy in a good conscience, and a
tranquil end. Thanks be to God for turning the strong
man's heart to Him in these latter days; may he do as
much for you and me and all!”

The Doctor put back the hair, and kissed the tender
forehead which rested on his breast.

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“We are all puppets, more or less, Alice,” he said,
“and we can not grasp, with all our boasted powers,
seemingly the most open and palpable significance of our
human life. All is most wondrous—youth, manhood,
age, the seasons, the growing trees, the grass; a divine
mystery lies in them all, and ever escapes us. You are
like a spring bud, I am in the mature summer of my life,
the form which rests in peace there, after so many piled
up years, so many tempests, was the snowy haired winter
of man. Well is it for us if we come to that winter
with so little soil upon our hearts—if we accept this
human life, so mysterious and strange with the like child-like
earnestness and trust. He was a brave true soul, a
most honest heart—his epitaph is written in most loving
memories!”

And kneeling down the Doctor wrote upon the tombstone
of the old hunter:

“Thou shalt come to thy grave in a full age, like as a
shock of corn cometh in, in his season.”

Then after a moment's thought he added those pious
words of the Psalmist: “Blessed be the name of the
Lord from this time forth, and forevermore.”

He felt an arm encircle his neck, the young girl's hair
brushed against his forehead, and two tears from those
tender eyes fell on the letters he had written. They
turned and left the place.