Very near the newly-made grave was a tiny grassy mound where little Kit lay; and at Malcolm's side stood a small, shabbily-dressed man, with pale watery blue eyes and an air of extreme dejection, nervously fumbling with the crape band on his hat.

Malcolm had just laid a little spray of violets and lilies of the valley on the mound, as they waited for the funeral procession.
"She was fond of flowers, Caleb." "Ay, that she was, sir," brightening up.

"Kit loved everything that was bright and pretty, bless her dear heart! I hope they'll give her lots of flowers where she's gone, and that they will let her pick them for herself.

You mind her last words to me, Mr.Herrick--'Good-bye, dad, I am a-going to be an angel, and I mean to be a real splendid one,' and all the time her poor throat would hardly let her speak." "Poor little soul," murmured Malcolm compassionately; for Kit had suffered greatly in her heroic childish fashion.

"Hush, here they come, Caleb." Malcolm grew quite white when he saw Elizabeth looking like a widow in her deep mourning and crape veil, leaning on Mr.Carlyon's arm.