He tagged along after Betty, switching at the grass with a whip he carried, never saying a word after that first eager call for her to wait.

The two never tired of each other.

He was content to follow and ask no questions, for he had learned long ago to look twice before he spoke once.

As he caught up with her at the gate, he did not even ask where she was going, knowing that he would find out in due time if he only followed far enough.
He did not have to follow far to-day.

Betty led the way across the road to a plain little wooden church, set back in a grove of cedar-trees.
Behind the church was a graveyard, where they often strolled on summer afternoons, through the tangle of grass and weeds and myrtle vines, to read the names on the tombstones and smell the pinks and lilies that struggled up year after year above the neglected mounds.