the old elm tree, and I will relate the sad story to you, for I am well acquainted with the facts, having resided near her dwelling when the sad catastrophe occurred." Anxious to become a listener to his narrative, which promised to awaken much interest, I accompanied the old man back to the elm tree, where, after seating ourselves upon a rustic bench, erected beneath the friendly shade of its wide spreading branches, he proceeded as follows:
THE STORY OF THE WIDOW'S GRAVE
"I remember the time when Mrs. Walterson first arrived in this village; it was about seventeen years ago, and she took up residence with her infant son in a small white cottage, situated upon a green knoll, close to the meadows. The self-same cottage is standing there even now, but it is sadly dilapidated. The latticed casement—over which the honeysuckle and sweet briar were wont to twine their pliant arms and shed a fragrance around—is now rusted on its hinges, and its broken panes are choked with ivy and wild vine. Its neat porch of trellis work, which had been erected by the widow's son under her immediate supervision, has fallen to decay. The garden is overgrown with weeds, and the white painted palings that surrounded the cottage have been pulled down and destroyed by our village urchins, who have made the garden a place of rendezvous to carry on their mischievous frolics. You may frequently observe three or four of those curly-headed little fellows swinging upon the garden gate and listening with apparent delight to the creaking of its hinges.
"In a corner of the garden, near the rear of the cottage, is a small wooden house resembling an ark; it is the residence of "Ceasar," once the trusty house dog, and an especial favorite of Master Joseph. Sometimes a group of children may be observed, examining that wooden tenement at a distance, with looks of suspicion, not unmingled with fear; and it frequently happens that one of those chubby little fellows—upon being urged by his companions—will advance a step or two and whistle, or chirp, in order to invite Ceasar to come forth; and then the poor animal—who rarely quits his cell, unless it be to visit the grave of his former mistress and young master—will thrust forth his grizzly head and growl at his tormentors. Poor Ceasar! He will never forget his mistress or the master who cherished him. He is supported by the kind-hearted neighbors and cannot be induced to quit that spot, for it was there that the widow and her son used to caress him. He has visited the old churchyard regularly every day since he lost his mistress, and I believe he will continue to do so until death prevents him. Upon the death of the widow and her son, he took on sadly and for several days refused food, and he would start off for this churchyard, moan over the grave, and burrow up the ground. Poor fellow! It went against my heart to drive him from that spot, but I was compelled to do it and finally to shut him out altogether, and then the faithful animal lurked around the palings and whined for admittance. I would fain have gratified him, but, as he destroyed the mound, I thought it was best to exclude him. For days, weeks, or months, did he hover around this place and take advantage of every opportunity to gain admission? At length, I ventured to gratify him and opened the gate for him, whereupon he bound towards the grave and whined and moaned as he was wont to do before. I was pleased to observe that he did not disturb the earth, and I expected him to continue there as long as he pleased. Since that time, he has been a daily visitor. But to return to his mistress.
"It was a glowing afternoon in the month of August when Mrs. Walterson first arrived with her son. He was a little rosy-cheeked fellow, and his auburn ringlets fell clustering over his shoulders. I thought that Mrs. Walterson was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. She was above the middle height, with a complexion so delicate and clear that the small blue veins in her neck resembled those that appear in the purest white marble, and her cheeks were tinged with the blush of the rose while her dark chesnut hair, braided upon her snowy forehead, descended in luxuriant ringlets upon her shoulders. Her hazel eyes and finely arched brows rendered her countenance the most expressive, imagination can imagine. You doubtless feel surprised to hear an old man speak in terms glowing with the fervor of youth. If I am led away, it is only by the recollection of Mrs. Walterson's worth, beauty, and rectitude of conduct.
"It was understood, upon Mrs. Walterson's arrival, that she was the wife of a captain who commanded a merchant vessel of which he was part owner. He was said to be a wealthy man and respectably connected. It appeared that Mrs. Walterson had married him in opposition to the wishes of her friends, and for that rash step, they had discarded her. It was in vain that Captain Walterson and his wife solicited forgiveness from her incensed parents; their letters were returned; and once the affectionate wife, but erring daughter, ventured beneath her father's roof to crave his blessing and forgiveness; she had been spurned at and driven from that father's presence with loud imprecations; and the servants at the hall were commanded, upon pain of instant dismissal, never to admit her or the Captain beneath that roof again.
"Having thus forfeited all hope of being reinstated to the affections of her parents, Mrs. Walterson passed her days of solitude in the white cottage that her husband had chosen for her residence.
Captain Walterson was absent from home for the greatest part of the year, during which time Mrs. Walterson, to relieve the monotony of her solitary life and beguile her tedious hours, undertook the instruction of
