Beneath that never-changing white cap, lives a single fixed remembrance. The poor old woman has lost everything and it has affected her mind. Her husband has been sleeping in the churchyard these many years. Her son, child of misfortune, takes no thought for her: he is worse than dead, he is lost.
So she spends her days thinking, thinking of a dear little daughter who died in tender youth, and whose Winsome image fills her whole mind. Long ago, the little grave, bought at such cost of effort, disappeared from the cemetery to make room for other graves. But beneath a faded child-portrait, flowers, lovingly cared for, entertain the devotion which can no longer be expended upon the grave, and when all-souls Day comes, the narrow room is sweet with nosegays and wreaths, among which floats a murmur of prayers.
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