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T was the second anniversary of the death of Billy Salter. A summer breeze played over the hillock which was surmounted by two small tombstones. The branches of the trees which had sheltered the grave-diggers from hail on the day of the funeral were now tossing in a frantic effort to extend their shade to the rows of asters with which Katie and Louise had bounded the two graves.

"Seems less lonesome for Billy, don't it, Mrs. Eveley, when Rosie has a flower bed too," Katie had commented. Rosie Dixon had died before Billy was born, but her span of life had been as limited as his own, which had the effect of making them seem contemporaries.

As Katie had expressed it, "If both were living to-day Rosie would be twenty-nine and Billy fourteen, just going into long pants; but really they're only the same age—both twelve, poor babies!"

Louise recalled the remark this August afternoon as she and Trenholme Dare tied their horses to neighboring trees and ascended towards the deserted graves. "I couldn't help feeling that Katie had stumbled on an interesting idea," she said.