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When Uncle True died, Mr. Cooper reverently buried his old
friend in the ancient grave-yard which adjoined the church where
he had long officiated as sexton. It was a dilapidated-looking place,
whose half-fallen and moss-grown stones proclaimed its recent
neglect and disuse. But long before the adjacent and time-worn
building gave place to a modern and more imposing structure the
hallowed remains of Uncle True had found a quieter restingplace.

With that good taste and good feeling which, in latter days, has
dedicated to the sacred dead some of the fairest spots on earth, a
beautiful piece of undulating woodland in the neighborhood of Mr.
Graham's country residence had been consecrated as a rural cemetery,
and in the loveliest nook of this sweet and venerated spot
the ashes of the good old lamplighter found their final repose.

This lot of land, which had been purchased through Willie's
thoughtful liberality, selected by Gertrude, and by her made fragrant
and beautiful with summer rose and winter ivy, now enclosed
also the forms of Mr. Cooper and Mrs. Sullivan; and over these
three graves Gertrude had planted many a flower, and watered it
with her tears. Especially did she view it as a sacred duty and
privilege to mark the anniversary of the death of each by a tribute
of fresh garlands; and, with this pious purpose in view, she left
Mr. Graham's house one beautiful afternoon, about a week after
the events took place which are narrated in the previous chapter.

She carried on her arm a basket, which contained her offering

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of flowers; and, as she had a long walk before her, started at a
rapid pace. Let us follow her, and briefly pursue the train of
thought which accompanied her on her way.

She had left her father with Emily. She would not ask him to
join her in her walk, though he had once expressed a desire to visit
the grave of Uncle True; for he and Emily were talking together
so contentedly, it would have been a pity to distrub them; and for
a few moments Gertrude's reflections were engrossed by the thought
of their calm and tranquil happiness. She thought of herself, too,
as associated with them both; of the deep and long-tried love of
Emily, and of the fond outpourings of affection daily and hourly
lavished upon her by her newly-found parent, and felt that she
could scarcely repay their kindness by the devotion of a lifetime.

Now and then, as she dwelt in her musings upon the sweet tie
between herself and Emily, which had gained strength with every
succeeding year, and the equally close and kindred union between
father and child, which, though recent in its origin, was scarcely
capable of being more firmly cemented by time, her thoughts
would, in spite of herself, wander to that earlier-formed and not
less tender friendship, now, alas! sadly ruptured and wounded, if
not wholly uprooted and destroyed. She tried to banish the
remembrance of Willie's faithlessness and desertion, deeming it
the part of an ungrateful spirit to mourn over past hopes, regardless
of the blessings that yet remained. She tried to keep in mind
the resolutions lately formed to forget the most painful feature in
her past life, and conseerate the remainder of her days to the happiness
of her father and Emily.

But it would not do. The obtruding and painful recollection
presented itself continually, notwithstanding her utmost efforts to
repress it, and at last, ceasing the struggle, she gave herself up
for the time to a deep and saddening revery.

She had received two visits from Willie since the one already
mentioned; but the second meeting had been in its character very
similar to the first, and on the succeeding occasion the constraint had
increased, instead of diminishing. Several times Willie had made
an apparent effort to break through this unnatural barrier, and
speak and act with the freedom of former days; but a sudden

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blush, or sign of confusion and distress, on Gertrude's part, deterred
him from any further attempt to put to flight the reserve and
want of confidence which subsisted in their intercourse. Again,
Gertrude, who had resolved, previous to his last visit, to meet him
with the frankness and cordiality which he might reasonably
expect, smiled upon him affectionately at his coming, and offered
her hand with such sisterly freedom, that he was emboldened to
take and retain it in his grasp, and was evidently on the point of
unburdening his mind of some weighty secret, when she turned
abruptly away, took up some trivial piece of work, and, while she
seemed wholly absorbed in it, addressed to him an unimportant
question;—a course of conduct which put to flight all his ideas,
and disconcerted him for the remainder of his stay.

As Gertrude pondered the awkward and distressing results of
every visit he had made her, she half hoped he would discontinue
them altogether; believing that the feelings of both would be less
wounded by a total separation than by interviews which must
leave on the mind of each a still greater sense of estrangement.

Strange as it may seem, she had not yet acquainted him with
the event so deep in its interest to herself,—the discovery of her
dearly-loved father. Once she tried to speak of it, but found herself
so overcome, at the very idea of imparting to the confidant of
her childhood an experience of which she could scarcely yet think
without emotion, that she paused in the attempt, fearing that,
should she, on any topic, give way to her sensibilities, she should
lose all restraint over her feelings, and lay open her whole heart
to Willie.

But there was one thing that distressed her more than all
others. In his first vain attempt to throw off all disguise, Willie
had more than intimated to her his own unhappiness; and, ere she
could find an opportunity to change the subject, and repel a confidence
for which she still felt herself unprepared, he had gone so
far as to speak mournfully of his future prospects in life.

The only construction which Gertrude could give to this confession
was that it had reference to his engagement with Isabel; and
it gave rise at once to the suspicion that, infatuated by her beauty,
he had impulsively and heedlessly bound himself to one who could

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never make him wholly happy. The little scenes to which she
had herself been a witness corroborated this idea, as, on both
occasions of her sceing the lovers and overhearing their words,
some cause of vexation seemed to exist on Willie's part.

“He loves her,” thought Gertrude, “and is also bound to her
in honor; but he sees already the want of harmony in their
natures. Poor Willie! It is impossible he should ever be happy
with Isabel.”

And Gertrude's sympathizing heart mourned not more deeply
over her own grief than over the disappointment that Willie must
be experiencing, if he had ever hoped to find peace in a union
with so overbearing, ill-humored and unreasonable a girl.

Wholly occupied with these and similar musings, she walked on
with a pace of whose quickness she was scarcely herself aware,
and soon gained the shelter of the heavy pines which bordered
the entrance to the cemetery. Here she paused for a moment to
enjoy the refreshing breeze that played beneath the branches; and
then, passing through the gateway, entered a carriage-road at the
right, and proceeded slowly up the gradual ascent. The place, always
quiet and peaceful, seemed unusually still and seeluded, and, save
the occasional carol of a bird, there was no sound to disturb the
perfect silence and repose. As Gertrude gazed upon the familiar
beauties of those sacred grounds, which had been her frequent resort
during several years,—as she walked between beds of flowers,
inhaled the fragrant and balmy air, and felt the solemn appeal, the
spiritual breathings, that haunted the holy place,—every emotion
that was not in harmony with the scene gradually took its flight,
and she experienced only that sensation of sweet and half-joyful
melancholy which was awakened by the thought of the happy dead.

After a while, she left the broad road which she had been following,
and turned into a little by-path. This she pursued for
some distance; and then, again diverging through another and
still narrower foot-track, gained the shady and retired spot which,
partly from its remoteness to the public walks, and partly from
its own natural beauty, had attracted her attention and recommended
itself to her choice. It was situated on the slope of a
little hill; a huge rock protected it on one side from the

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observation of the passer-by, and a fine old oak overshadowed it upon the
other. The iron enclosure, of simple workmanship, was nearly
overgrown by the green ivy, which had been planted there by
Gertrude's hand, and the moss-grown rock also was festooned by
its graceful and clinging tendrils. Upon a jutting piece of stone,
directly beside the grave of Uncle True, Gertrude seated herself,
as was her wont, and after a few moments of contemplation, during
which she sat with her elbow upon her knee and her head resting
upon her hand, she straightened her slight figure, sighed heavily,
and then, lifting the cover of her basket, emptied her flowers upon
the grass, and with skilful fingers commenced weaving a graceful
chaplet, which, when completed, she placed upon the grave at her
feet. With the remainder of the blossoms she strewed the other
mounds; and then, drawing forth a pair of gardening-gloves and
a little trowel, she employed herself for nearly an hour among
the flowers and vines with which she had embowered the spot.

Her work at last being finished, she again placed herself at the
foot of the old rock, removed her gloves, pushed back from her
forehead the simple but heavy braids of her hair, and appeared
to be resting from her labors.

It was seven years that day since Uncle True died, but the time
had not yet come for Gertrude to forget the simple, kind old
man. Often did his pleasant smile and cheering words come to
her in her dreams; and both by day and night did the image of
him who had gladdened and blessed her childhood encourage her
to the imitation of his humble and patient virtue. As she gazed
upon the grassy mound that covered him, and scene after scene
rose up before her in which that earliest friend and herself had
whiled away the happy hours, there came, to embitter the otherwise
cherished rememberance, the recollection of that third and
seldom absent one, who completed and made perfect the memory
of their fireside joys; and Gertrude, while yielding to the inward
reflection, unconsciously exclaimed aloud, “O, Uncle True! you
and I are not parted yet; but Willie is not of us!”

“O, Gertrude,” said a reproachful voice close at her side;
“is Willie to blame for that?”

She started, turned, saw the object of her thoughts with his

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mild sad eyes fixed inquiringly upon her, and, without replying to
his question, buried her face in her hands.

He threw himself upon the ground at her feet and, as on the
occasion of their first childish interview, gently lfted her bowed
head from the hands upon which it had fallen, and compelled her
to look him in the face, saying, at the same time in the most imploring
accents, “Tell me, Gerty, in pity tell me why am I excluded
from your sympathy?”

But still she made no reply, except by the ears that coursed
down her cheeks.

“You make me miserable,” continued he, velemently. “What
have I done that you have so shut me out from your affection?
Why do you look so coldly upon me,—and even shrink from my
sight?” added he, as Gertrude, unable to ensure his steadfast,
searching look, turned her eyes in another direction, and strove to
free her hands from his grasp.

“I am not cold,—I do not mean to be,” said she, her voice
half-choked with emotion.

“O, Gertrude,” replied he, relinquishing her hands, and
turning away, “I see you have wholly ceased to love me. I
trembled when I first beheld you, so lovely, so beautiful, and so
beloved by all, and feared lest some fortunate rival had stolen
your heart from its boyish keeper. But even then I did not
dream that you would refuse me, at least, a brother's claim to
your affection.”

“I will not,” exclaimed Gertrude eagerly. “O, Willie, you
must not be angry with me! Let me be your sister!”

He smiled a most mournful smile. “I was right, then,” continued
he; “you feared lest I should claim too much, and discouraged
my presumption by awarding me nothing. Be it so.
Perhaps your prudence was for the best; but O, Gertrude, it
has made me heart-broken!”

“Willie,” exclaimed Gertrude, with excitement, “do you know
how strangely you are speaking?”

“Strangely?” responded Willie, in a half-offended tone. “Is
it so strange that I should love you? Have I not for years
cherished the remembrance of our past affection, and looked

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forward to our reünion as my only hope of happiness? Has not
this fond expectation inspired my labors, and cheered my toils,
and endeared to me my life, in spite of its bereavements? And
can you, in the very sight of these cold mounds, beneath which
lie buried all else that I held dear on earth, crush and destroy,
without compassion, this solitary but all engrossing—”

“Willie,” inerrupted Gertrude, her calmness suddenly restored,
and speaking in a kind but serious tone, “is it honorable
for you to address me thus? Have you forgotten—”

“No, I have not forgotten,” exclaimed he, vehemently. “I
have not forgotten that I have no right to distress or annoy you,
and I will do so no more. But, O, Gerty! my sister Gerty (since
all hope of a nearer tie is at an end), blame me not, and wonder
not, if I fail at present to perform a brother's part. I cannot
stay in this neighborhood. I cannot be the patient witness of
another's happiness. My services, my time, my life, you may
command, and in my far-distant home I will never cease to pray
that the husband you have chosen, whoever he be, may prove
himself worthy of my noble Gertrude, and love her one-half as
well as I do!”

“Willie,” said Gertrude, “what madness is this? I am bound
by no such tie as you describe; but what shall I think of your
treachery to Isabel:”

“To Isabel?” cried Willie, starting up, as if seized with a
new idea. “And has that silly rumor reached you too? and did
you put faith in the falsehood?”

“Falsehood!” exclained Gertrude, lifting her hitherto drooping
eyelids, and casting upon him, through their wet lashes, a look
of earnest scrutiny.

Calmly returning a glance which he had neither avoided nor
quailed under, Willie responded, unhesitatingly, and with a tone
of astonishment not unmingled with reproach, “Falsehood?—
Yes. With the knowledge you have both of her and myself,
could you doubt its being such for a moment?”

“O, Willie!” cried Gertrude, “could I doubt the evidence
of my own eyes and ears? Had I trusted to less faithful witnesses,
I might have been deceived. Do not attempt to conceal from

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me the truth to which my own observation can testify. Treat
me with frankness, Willie!—Indeed, indeed, I deserve it at
your hands!”

“Frankness, Gertrude! It is you only who are mysterious.
Could I lay my whole soul bare to your gaze, you would be convinced
of its truth, its perfect truth, to its first affection. And as
to Isabel Clinton, if it is to her that you have reference, your
eyes and your ears have both played you false, if—”

“O, Willie! Willie!” exclaimed Gertrude, interrupting him,
“have you so soon forgotten your devotion to the belle of Saratoga;
your unwillingness to sanction her temporary absence from your
sight; the pain which the mere suggestion of the journey caused
you, and the fond impatience which threatened to render those
few days an eternity?”

“Stop! stop!” cried Willie, a new light breaking in upon
him, “and tell me where you learned all this.”

“In the very spot where you spoke and acted. Mr. Graham's
parlor did not witness our first meeting. In the public promenade-ground,
on the shore of Saratoga lake, and on board the
steamboat at Albany, did I both see and recognize you—myself
unknown. There too did your own words serve to convince me
of the truth of that which from other lips I had refused to believe.”

The sunshine which gilds the morning is scarcely more bright
and gladsome than the glow of rekindled hope which now animated
the face of Willie.

“Listen to me, Gertrude,” said he, in a fervent and almost
solemn tone, “and believe that in sight of my mother's grave, and
in the presence of that pure spirit (and he looked reverently upward)
who taught me the love of truth, I speak with such sincerity
and candor as are fitting for the ears of angels. I do not
question the accuracy with which you overheard my expostulations
and entreaties on the subject of Miss Clinton's proposed journey,
or the impatience I expressed at parting for her speedy return.
I will not pause, either, to inquire where the object of all my
thoughts could have been at the time, that, notwithstanding the
changes of years, she escaped my eager eyes. Let me first clear

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myself of the imputation under which I labor, and then there will
be room for all further explanations.

“I did, indeed, feel deep pain at Miss Clinton's sudden departure
for New York, under a pretext which ought not to have
weighed with her for a moment. I did indeed employ every argument
to dissuade her from her purpose; and when my eloquence
had failed to induce the abandonment of the scheme, I
availed myself of every suggestion and motive which might possibly
influence her to shorten her absence. Not because the
society of the selfish girl was essential, or even conducive, to my
own happiness,—far from it,—but because her excellent father,
who so worshipped and idolized his only child that he would have
thought no sacrifice too great by means of which he could add
one particle to her enjoyment, was, at that very time, amid all
the noise and discomfort of a crowded watering-place, hovering
between life and death, and I was disgusted at the heartlessness
which voluntarily left the fondest of parents deprived of all female
tending, to the charge of a hired nurse, and an unskilful
though willing youth like myself. That eternity might, in Miss
Clinton's absence, set a seal to the life of her father, was a
thought which, in my indignation, I was on the point of uttering;
but I checked myself, unwilling to interfere too far in a matter
which came not within my rightful province, and perhaps excite
unnecessary alarm in Isabel. If selfishness mingled at all in my
views, dear Gerty, and made me over-impatient for the return of
the daughter to her post of duty, it was that I might be released
from almost constant attendance upon my invalid friend, and
hasten to her from whom I hoped such warmth of greeting as I
was only too eager to bestow. Can you wonder, then, that your
reception struck cold upon my throbbing heart?”

“But you understand the cause of that coldness now,” said
Gertrude, looking up at him through a rain of tears, which, like
a summer sun-shower, reflected itself in rainbow smiles upon her
happy countenance. “You know now why I dared not let my
heart speak out.”

“And this was all, then?” cried Willie; “and you are free,
and I may love you still?”

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